


Le Chaton

by TuppingLiberty



Category: Original Work
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bad Parenting, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Breeding Kink, Closeted Character, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Dubcon also not between MCs, Face-Fucking, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Heat Kink, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Kink, Kink Negotiation, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, One of those fake tiny European countries, Panic Attacks, Pet Play, Phone Sex, Royalty, Running, Safer Sex, Sex Club, Spanking, Sub Drop, Threat of Forced Outing, Top Drop, Undernegotiated Kink not between MCs, Vomiting, hidden identities, masked sex, past self-harm, self-harm discussion, use of f slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: Loosely (and I mean loosely. You do not have to read it before) based onthis workfor the FFC 2020, Le Chaton is a story of a closeted prince who falls in love with a passionate advocate for social progress in the small country of Livinia.As the heir to the throne, Prince Michel Marchand has been groomed from a young age to carry the weight of both his family and his country on his shoulders. Strong conservative traditions and a bigoted king, though, mean he'll never get to show who he truly is, unless he puts on a mask...Césaire Demaret has worked hard to become Livinia's first openly gay La Voix du Peuple, the person who serves as the go-between for the crown and the people of Livinia. His agenda brings him head-to-head with some of the conservative voices on the council, but he finds an unexpected ally in the prince. Now, if only he could get the prince to stop treating him with such a cold shoulder. At least he can always lose himself in kink, and he has such a lovely new partner who oddly always wears a mask...Le Chaton is a 33k 16 chapter novella, completely written, and will update on Sun, Tues, Thurs.
Relationships: Michel Marchand/Césaire Demaret, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 135
Kudos: 105





	1. Meet Michel and Césaire

“Michel? Earth to Michel,” Nadia says dryly, taking a sip of her wine. 

It’s only when she snaps her fingers, though, that Michel actually comes to attention. “Hmm? I’m so sorry, _ma chéri.”_ Michel straightens in his chair, then laughs when Nadia slips one stockinged foot out of her Louboutins and pushes his knee with it playfully. 

“Relax, _mon prince,_ you look like someone stuck a rod up your ass and left it there…” Nadia wiggles her eyebrows. “Unless someone did, hmm?” 

“None of that.” Michel feels himself blush and pushes his fingers through his blonde hair, even as he lets his spine relax a little. Nadia is the only person in the world Michel can relax around, and he knows he provides a similar service for her. And thank God for that, because a stupidly archaic rule governing the royal family saw them betrothed when he was five and she was three. There are pictures of tiny them in their tiny fancy outfits in front of an imposing bishop that are either sad, gross, or cute, depending on how one looks at it. 

He looks at her now, leaning back in the love seat, legs spread wide uncaring of her skirt, shoes kicked off, short brown hair ruffled because she’s been running her hands through it. To see her, no one would think she’s the heiress of the most influential banking family in Livinia.

Michel likes that about her, her ability to let go, even alone, behind closed doors. He’s not sure when he lost that ability, the family lesson on royal behavior drilled into him long ago. Sometimes he feels as if he’s the only one in the family who actually paid attention to those lessons, given his mother and siblings’ penchant for needing rescue.

He lifts up his own glass and gives her a little toast before taking a sip himself, trying to settle into his current role: friend, confidant, future husband. He rests his ankle on his knee, as relaxed as he’ll allow himself, although, he supposes, he’s going to have to relax enough at some point to make an heir with her, whenever they get around to actually announcing the engagement they’ve been putting off. 

“And how are Emilienne and René doing in...Rome, was it?” 

_Speaking of lessons on royal behavior._

“I believe the last report from the yacht’s captain had them at Monaco, actually.” To say nothing of the large lines of credit that had needed to be authorized late last evening for the casino. Caring for his siblings’ reputations is a task he’d been deemed responsible enough to take on years ago, with his father continually enmeshed in trade negotiations on behalf of Livinia’s council and his mother distracted by her lovers. “They have supposedly left Italy trailing a string of broken hearts, and, let’s hope this time, still no heirs that need to be provided for.” 

_“Á la vôtre,”_ Nadia murmurs, lifting her glass to Michel. “And you? Anything fun planned for the weekend? Any nice plans with a boy, perhaps?” She wiggles her eyebrows again. 

Nadia is, as ever, encouraging and open with him. It’s what will make her a good wife, he supposes, even if their preferences are incompatible. He sighs, setting his still-full glass on the table and unfolding his long legs to walk to the window of his private quarters in the palace. It overlooks the rose gardens, quiet now in the early evening. He’d been out there earlier, and the gardens had buzzed with life, bees flitting from here to there, fragrance almost overpowering. 

It feels like those same bees are buzzing beneath his skin, fighting to break free, to erupt from him _en masse_ and ruin everything for which he’s so carefully worked.

“No plans,” he lies, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues to look out across the palace grounds. His fingernails dig into his arm so he forces himself to straighten again, drop them, show nothing, even to his closest friend. There’s only one remedy, he knows this. 

He’ll have to let _Le Chaton_ out this weekend.

“This briefing is excellently written.” Even though M. Chastain is frowning, Césaire can tell it’s one of his _good_ frowns. “Yves, get started on the paperwork for the foundation, given this report.” 

“Yes, sir.” Yves scurries away, and an expectant silence falls over the table. Every molecule in Césaire’s being feels like it’s tensing in wait. He stiffens his spine, trying not to sweat in the fine suit that outlines his tall frame nicely.

“Marie, who did you assign to this brief? Who should the royal family be thanking for saving them millions of Euros that could have been lost to fraud?” 

Marie Crépin, Césaire’s direct superior and someone he’s come to think of as a second mother, looks over and gives him a little wink. “That would be Césaire Demaret, M. Chastain.” 

“Excellent. Marie, Césaire, please stay. The rest of you are dismissed.” M. Chastain leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as the others file out. “Césaire, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard your name recently.” 

Trying to walk the line between eagerness and anxiety, Césaire nods, unsure of how to respond. “Thank you, M. Chastain.” 

His body feels like it’s alight with adrenaline. Being singled out by the big boss _never_ happens. 

“Observations, Marie?” 

“M. Demaret has been working with us faithfully for three years. In that time, he’s had a completely clean record. He’s shown excellent promise for someone so young, and is the most knowledgeable person we have on staff at the moment in regards to the royal charter. And, I can say, personally, I’d highly recommend him for the position.”

Position? _Position?_ Everything, everything in his body tenses for what he’s hoping will happen. He scoots to the edge of his seat, planting his feet firmly on the law office’s floor, trying to ground himself. 

“Césaire, as you probably know, Mme. LeBlanc is retiring. A person of your aptitude and integrity could be just the one to replace her.” 

Only through years of courtroom training does Césaire keep his face serene, though his heart thuds. Mme. LeBlanc - he’s only ever seen her at office parties and the annual all-staff meeting, because Mme. LeBlanc works _personally_ with the royal family. Mme. LeBlanc, as everyone knows, is _La Voix du Peuple._

 _La Voix du Peuple,_ the position he’s been working for his entire life, is within his grasp. His luck feels unbelievable, until he remembers how hard he’s worked for this moment. 

“Of course, it’s contingent on an interview with Mme. LeBlanc, and the Royal family. Mme. LeBlanc has advised the King for many years; the new Voice of the People must be able to work with Prince Michel just as fruitfully.” 

Marie is absolutely beaming at him, but Césaire’s still thunderstruck, his body as taut as a bowstring waiting to release tension, because M. Chastain has not said _the words._

“Césaire Demaret, would you like the chance to become _La Voix du Peuple?”_

Everything releases in Césaire’s body as he smiles broadly. “I would be honored, M. Chastain, Mme. Crépin.” 

“To Césaire!” Someone shouts over the din at the bar, and their beer glasses all clink together. The group is a fun mix of his work friends and law school friends, all celebrating Césaire’s possible promotion, despite Césaire’s protests that he hasn’t yet secured the position. 

The beer keeps flowing in his direction, but his friends are too merry to note that he’s doing little drinking himself. He wants a clear head for his own private celebration later at the sex club Écarlate. His friend Henri gives him a sly wink, and Césaire imagines he’ll see him at the sex club later. 

The adrenaline of his meeting with M. Chastain needs to be transfigured, channeled into something else before Césaire shakes apart at the seams. At Écarlate, he’ll be able to find exactly what he needs, and someone willing to do it with him.


	2. Crossing Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid heroes meet for the first time, and it is definitely not the reception Césaire was expecting. 
> 
> No, I didn't get the day wrong, I just decided to do these first three chapters closer together to really get the story going. So I'll post today, Thursday, and then on Sunday I'll go back to the Sunday-Wednesday schedule. :)
> 
> Warnings specific to this chapter: Panic attack, vomiting (not graphically described or anything)

“Don’t worry.” The attendant gives Césaire a wink. “Everyone’s intimidated on their first visit to the palace. Eventually it just becomes, you know, where you work.” He holds out his hand, and Césaire takes it automatically to shake, giving the man a warm smile. “David, by the way.” 

“How long did it take you?” 

“Admittedly, a few years. And every now and then I turn a corner and-” David leads him into a room with tall, arched ceilings covered in gilt decorations. “And it’s just a little breathtaking.” 

“The Rococo Room,” Césaire murmurs. To be fair, he’s never had an eye for art, but the class had been required at university and his professor had been rather obsessed with the details of the royal palace. Seeing it in person is...slightly different than seeing it on a slide projected at the front of a grand lecture hall, though. 

“It’s very ostentatious, and David would tell you that I only ask to take tea here when I’m trying to impress a newcomer.” The woman’s voice is warm and instantly recognizable, and Césaire and David both turn to greet  _ La Voix du Peuple _ herself. 

“Mme. LeBlanc, thank you for this opportunity.” Césaire gives a little bow to the shorter woman, suddenly uncertain of his manners as if he’s lost all of the training of the last decade. 

“Please, you must call me Flore, if you’ll permit me to call you Césaire?” Bypassing his outstretched hand, the Voice of the People -  _ the Voice of the People! -  _ takes his arm with warm brown fingers and guides him toward a set of outrageously decorated chairs. 

“Yes, of course you can,” he says as they settle and David pours the tea. 

“Your eyes are as wide as these saucers, you know, but you are forgiven. I was absolutely just as impressed the first time I stepped foot in this room as a young woman.” 

The first female Voice in a hundred years, Césaire remembers, but David interrupts his thoughts to ask if he wants sugar. 

Césaire lets the task of preparing his tea center him, and when he takes a small sip, the warmth spreads through his body, calming him further. “You must tell me the story of your first day.” 

“Sometime, yes. Today, though, we have much more important topics to discuss. And,” Flore says with a sweet smile, “you must meet the family, of course.” 

Césaire is very proud of himself when his hand doesn’t tremble: for all her short stature, the Voice is intimidating in person. “Of course.” 

“The office of La Voix du Peuple, as you know, was only instated so King Remy IV’s head wouldn’t go the way of King Louis XVI’s in France.” 

Flore has his arm again as they walk around the room, admiring the Baroque art. “Yes, to serve as a sort of go-between.” His heart thumps, thinking of himself in the roll. 

“A teller of hard truths, both to the royals and to the people. It makes us rather unpopular at times, and not necessarily immune from losing our heads ourselves.” She waves that off. “Not to scare you, but merely to make you aware.” 

She brings them to a stop at a window overlooking the east grounds, falling into a companionable silence. After a minute, Césaire turns away from the vista to look at the older woman. “Why me? We’ve never even spoken before.” 

“I’ve been following your work since you started at the firm, and have gathered a dozen or more letters from former teachers, professors, and employers, speaking to their confidence in you. Your profile was flagged for me as a person of interest to keep an eye on, along with a handful of others when I decided to start looking for my replacement. And there you are: outspoken activist not just at university but in grade school, as well, eloquent, a good public speaker, meticulous with details, openly gay.”

Césaire laughs, just a little, mostly from surprise. “I’d never hide it, but honestly I thought that’d be something that disqualified me given the current climate in the council.” 

“The council’s opinion is skewed by the age that brings conservatism; to put it plainly, Césaire, we need fresh blood like you. To speak for the young people, especially. You can make their voices heard better than I will ever be able to.” 

“You speak as if I’ve already gotten the job.” 

“Well, if it were solely up to me, you would have it and I’d be on a cruise to Malta, but before we can finalize anything, you’ll of course need to meet with the royal family.” 

As if knowing he’d been summoned, Prince Michel walks into the Rococo Room, tapping away at a tablet while calling out, “David, do you have- Oh.” 

He freezes in his tracks, which gives Césaire enough time to get over his own little jolt at seeing the handsome face he’d always admired from afar in real life for the first time. Television and print do him no justice, Césaire decides, immediately lost in the high cheekbones, pale skin, and soft brown eyes that are indicative of the Marchand line. The blond hair is all from his mother, though, falling down in effortless - yet undoubtedly highly styled - waves over his face. The distracted smile he’d been giving his tablet does wonders for him; Césaire is used to seeing him with a more regal, neutral-for-public face firmly in place. 

“Michel, you’re just in time. This is the candidate I’ve been telling you about. You admired the work he did crafting the constitutional argument for funding the free library program. M. Césaire Demaret, his highness, Monseigneur Michel Marchand.” Flore leads him to the prince, Césaire assuming that it’s their responsibility as subjects to meet him rather than expect him to cross to them. 

As they step closer, though, most curiously, the blood seems to drain completely from the prince’s face. He stands impossibly straight, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and the knuckles of the hand still gripping the tablet have gone white. 

“Monseigneur Marchand.” Césaire bows, wondering at the prince’s demeanor. 

Flore looks at the prince expectantly, but he remains silent. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold and clipped. “M. Demaret. Your work is excellent. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful Voice. If you’ll excuse me, I just realized I’ve forgotten something in my quarters. Good day.” 

Césaire is shocked as he watches the prince turn stiffly on his heel and exit the room again, and when he looks at Flore, she’s looking puzzled as well. “That’s odd. The prince has been looking forward to meeting you for weeks. Well,” Flore smiles at him once more. “No matter. The way he’s been talking about you, he’s most certainly going to endorse you at your public presentation. Don’t worry, Césaire.” 

Despite Flore’s bright smile and reassuring words, Césaire can’t help but let nerves creep into his stomach. He’d never had a colder reception - and this is his future king? The man he’ll have to work with for the rest of his life? 

Becoming the Voice is the culmination of everything Césaire has ever wanted. Is the prince going to ruin it before he even has a chance to claim the title? 

Just barely, Michel makes it to his suite’s bathroom to fall to his knees before his toilet and throw up. He ignores the pain in his knees from dropping to the floor so suddenly as he rids himself of his breakfast, his stomach heaving as his body shakes. When it feels like he’s completely emptied himself, he collapses to the floor, letting the cool tiles soothe his heated face. Strangely, he feels so, so cold, he can’t stop trembling. 

In a deep recess of his brain he knows this is a panic attack. That knowledge doesn’t help at the moment. He can’t stop his quick breath, his rapid heartbeat. Everything, everything is ruined. 

It’s all going to come crashing down on him now. 

He sobs a breath in, holds it, tries to let it whistle out slowly before it hitches in again. 

Césaire Demaret. The man he’s had a hand in choosing, the man who will work with him intimately once Mme. LeBlanc retires. The man he’s fallen in love with, slowly, over only paper, more so than any of the other candidates Mme. LeBlanc had brought to his attention.

The man who Michel had previously only known as Sir, who tied him up and spanked his ass and fucked him into the mattress of the rented sex club room just two nights ago. 

Césaire Demaret, handsome with his tan skin and tawny hair, strong, matching his own height, and quite possibly the only man who knows Michel’s dirty little secret - at least, the only one in Livinia. He’s only been venturing out for a little over a year, and he’d always been so discreet, had waited until he was on vacation or visiting another country. His only hope is that the half-mask, the one he prefers to wear as  _ Le Chaton _ , black leather, with kitten ears, was enough to preserve his privacy. It’s always worked before, but he’s never had extended contact with one of the Doms he’d picked up, either. 

Michel trembles, feeling bile rise in his throat again. The bathroom floor is impossibly cold. But he manages a breath, and then another, until the nausea has passed. He pushes himself up off the floor with some resolve. 

He’ll simply have to force the piece of him that escapes when he can be  _ Le Chaton _ somewhere deep inside himself. He’ll have to have more control. 

He pulls himself up from the floor, his spine stiffening straight as he reaches for his toothbrush. He can treat Césaire Demaret as if he’s any other man he met on the street. He can restrain himself from becoming  _ Le Chaton _ and letting himself go. It’s not like he’s done it all that often, anyway. Just every few months, to take the edge off of being the prince day in and day out. He can stop. 

Especially if he steadfastly ignores the raw, gnawing feeling in his stomach and avoids Césaire Demaret as much as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is what happened two days earlier ;)


	3. Two Nights Earlier....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what happened two nights ago?
> 
> CWs this chapter: a bit of sub drop and top drop, but not severe.

_ Two nights ago: _

Césaire’s been cruising the club for a half hour when he finally spots potential: the man is sitting at the bar, sipping slowly at something clear while he chats with the bartender. He’s wearing a black harness and barely-there leather booty shorts with a black tail tucked in the back, blonde hair held back by a cat half-mask, and the green bracelet that indicates he’s looking to play. Black ink scrolls along his ribs underneath his harness, but Césaire can’t quite make it out beyond how it adds to the concept of how hot the man looks. 

Césaire slides in, orders water from the bartender as he continues to size up the kitten. He’s tall, with lanky limbs that might seem awkward in any other instance, but he’s not awkward now, no. The other man angles his body toward Césaire, putting all of himself on display as he smiles coyly. “Hello, sir,” he murmurs, his voice a purr. 

Césaire pushes  _ Le Chaton, _ the only name the man had given him, up against the door of the private playroom, cupping his smooth cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss. Le Chaton shudders into it, pliant in Césaire’s hands, so sweet. Césaire groans, pushing them through the door. 

“Stoplights?” he asks, breathless. 

“Red, stop, yellow pause, green, go,” Le Chaton confirms, his lips already red and swollen, his blond hair tumbling around the edges of the mask. 

Césaire twists his fingers in the hair at the back of the man’s head, not disturbing the mask but gaining leverage to pull him closer, bringing him in for another searing kiss. “Is that how you talk to your master?” 

Le Chaton’s long, light eyelashes flutter behind his mask, and his pupils are already dilating with want. “No, sir. Please forgive me.” 

Césaire tightens his fingers, watching the pain wash over the kitten, making him tremble.  _ I like to be hurt, _ he’d said at the bar earlier, and though the words tell Césaire Le Chaton is new to the scene, or at least inexperienced - someone more seasoned would have just said they’re into pain play, at least in Césaire’s estimation - Césaire’s happy to oblige. “If you show me what a good kitten you are, maybe I will.” 

Earlier, Le Chaton had seemed confused when Césaire brought up kitten play, looking interested but unsure. They’d agree to pain play, though, because that’s the supplies Césaire brought with him, and because he’s never really had a pup or kitten before. Still, at Césaire’s use of the name, Le Chaton nods frantically, his shoulders hunching and head bowing in submission as much as he can with Césaire’s fingers still gripping tightly. 

Something flits through Césaire’s mind, and he pauses, loosening a little so that Le Chaton can respond undistracted. “And good kittens don’t speak, do they,  _ mon cheri? _ So if you need to use a safeword but you don’t want to speak because you’re being such a good, good kitten,” he punctuates his words with nips at Le Chaton’s lips, “I want you to make this sign, okay? That means I’ll stop, no matter what, and we’ll figure out what needs to happen.” 

He folds Le Chaton’s fingers into the V for victory sign, and waits until Le Chaton nods again, though he seems hesitant. Definitely inexperienced, then. A thrillseeker, maybe, Césaire thinks, drawn in by one of those popular movies that brings BDSM to the masses. No matter, because he’s a hot piece of ass and incredibly responsive. Césaire barely contains his grin as he thinks of the fun they’re going to have together. 

“On the bed, on all fours, kitten,” he orders, giving Le Chaton a little encouraging shove in the right direction. He seems wobbly on his feet but he makes it, falling onto the bed. The leather stretches over his perfect ass, inviting Césaire’s touch, and he indulges himself, running his hand down the man’s crack and over his balls to squeeze at the hard bulge of the kitten’s cock, barely staying contained. 

“So beautiful, but not quite how I want you,” Césaire orders as he repositions Le Chaton so his legs are spread to the bottom corners of the bed, where he can cuff them to the bed posts when the time comes. From this angle, one knee up on the bed for leverage, it’s much easier to bring his hand down hard on that ass, making Le Chaton groan and shudder. 

He loves the dull thud of his blows being softened by the leather, but he can tell from Le Chaton’s instinctive, restless movements that it’s not enough to satisfy either of them. 

“Patience, kitten,” he chastises, marveling at the way Le Chaton purrs into his touch. He’s only ever observed pet play, but something in him stirs at the way Le Chaton submits to him. Something to explore. Maybe after this, Le Chaton will want to exchange numbers, help him with that exploration.  


He peels the shorts down, no easy task considering they’re practically painted on the kitten, and lets out a growl of his own when he sees that the black tail that had been tucked into the shorts is actually a plug. It holds Le Chaton open wide, lube glistening at the edges; the sight makes Césaire’s cock press painfully against his pants. “Naughty kitty.” 

Le Chaton looks back at him, his pupils blown and eyes submissive, but his lips turning into the slyest tiny smile as he ever so slightly pushes his ass back toward Césaire.  _ Naughty, indeed.  _ Anticipation runs hot through Césaire’s blood. 

He pulls the shorts all the way off, dragging Le Chaton none too gently to the end of the bed where he can work the leather cuffs around the kitten’s ankles. The restraints pull his legs obscenely wide, his ass pressing against the air, the plug’s tail swinging down playfully. Césaire leaves his hands free for him to claw into the sheets all he wants - and for him to be able to give Césaire his signal; he’d been right, Le Chaton seems to prefer to go nonverbal during play. Strange that he hadn’t known a silent signal before Césaire showed him, but then again, he’s definitely inexperienced. 

Césaire runs his hand over Le Chaton’s flank, cupping that gorgeous ass - the man must do a billion squats a day - before playing with the plug a little just to hear him whimper. “I think kitten is ready for his fun, isn’t he?” he says with a caress down Le Chaton’s thigh. The man nods, dropping down to his elbows to better position himself. 

Césaire imagines forcing him up onto all fours again, torturing him by having him keep a perfect kitten pose, and smiles to himself. Another time, perhaps. Le Chaton is turning out to be a fun little sub. 

When he brings his hand down on Le Chaton’s ass, just a warm up slap now that the leather barrier has been taken away, the kitten visibly shudders, his cock twitching as it hangs exposed for Césaire. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, caressing over the red mark he’d created. 

He strikes again on the other cheek, working up the intensity, always watchful for Le Chaton’s signal, but the man barely flinches, just presses his hands into the sheets and arches his back more. 

“You are so gorgeous. Such a pretty little kitten for me.” 

Amazingly, Le Chaton blushes at that, his body language going bashful but his ass pressing back for more. Césaire hums, noting the praise kink - or perhaps embarrassment. Maybe his kitten doesn’t get compliments very often. Something tightens in Césaire’s chest as he watches his sub go deep from the repeated blows on his ass. His cock is straining against his pants, and he feels power and confidence course through him.  


When he lands a strike directly over the plug, Le Chaton shouts, drowning it out in the sheets, his cock leaking precum freely. He’s practically writhing under Césaire’s touch, a wildcat now. 

“Shhh, shh, shh,” Césaire soothes as he pulls away to grab the lube and a condom. Le Chaton whimpers sadly, his eyes, big and black with desire, watching as Césaire divests himself of his clothing. “I’m right here, I’m not leaving you.”

He watches Le Chaton’s eyes travel appreciatively down his body and takes it for the compliment it is, then grins when the kitten sees his cock and immediately licks his lips. “Does kitty want my cock?” 

Le Chaton is still hazy from the spanking, but he straightens his trembling arms and nods eagerly, his mouth already dropping open.  _ Please, please, _ he all but says. 

Tossing the lube aside for later, Césaire rolls the condom up and then positions himself in front of the man, grabbing into his hair again and pulling him onto his cock. There’s no finesse, they’re both too far gone for that. Césaire uses the warm heat of Le Chaton’s mouth, guiding the kitten by his hair and watching his eyes go blind with happiness, with wherever his subspace takes him. 

“I bet you’d be a good little cockwarmer for your master, wouldn’t you? Always give him a nice, warm hole to sink into.” 

Le Chaton whimpers, his eyes flicking up to meet Césaire’s as Césaire pushes as far in as he can go without messing with breathplay - definitely something he’d never do with a newbie like Le Chaton without massive negotiations, the kind of talk that lasts longer than one shared drink at the bar. 

He watches as the kitten lets his eyes close, perfectly blissed out to just be used like this, to let Césaire bob him on his cock like he’s Césaire’s own personal fleshlight. But his ass is twitching, the tail-plug moving, and Césaire decides it’s time to give his kitten what he really needs. 

When he pulls out, a line of spit connects his cock and Le Chaton’s mouth until the man breaks it by collapsing onto his elbows again in apparent bliss, if the small smile gracing his swollen lips is any indication. Césaire readjusts himself, kneeling behind Le Chaton now, and traces around Le Chaton’s wet opening, working a lubed finger in alongside the plug. 

Le Chaton gasps, but no safe signal comes, so Césaire pulls the tail out, immediately replacing it with two of his fingers and fucking inside. Le Chaton barely needs to be stretched - apparently he believes in being thoroughly prepared - but Césaire takes the time to explore, grinning when he sweeps over Le Chaton’s prostate for the first time and the kitten cries out into the sheets and balls his fists into them like claws. 

“Gorgeous, gorgeous kitten,” he praises, loving to watch the blush rise in Le Chaton’s cheeks when he’s in such a debauched position. 

Le Chaton  _ keens _ when Césaire slides into him until his entire cock is surrounded by warmth, his balls resting against Le Chaton’s ass. Césaire loses himself for a moment, the iron grip on his control slipping as he lets his eyes close and slowly fucks in and out of Le Chaton once, then again. He brings himself back from the edge, though, because this beautiful little sub is his responsibility, and wraps a hand around Le Chaton’s harness for leverage.

He pulls at the straps, lifting Le Chaton’s chest as he picks up the pace. Le Chaton’s body bows beautifully under him, pressing up onto his fingertips to try and take Césaire deeper. Every thrust, Césaire fucks a soft little whine past Le Chaton’s lips, and then that’s the game - how hard and how fast can he push the kitten to hear more of those delicious little whimpers. 

Le Chaton bares his neck, and Césaire can’t resist the temptation, dropping his head and biting into his skin, then sucking a mark there. His hips piston, driving louder sounds out of the kitten’s mouth. Césaire drinks them up; he’s fairly sure he’ll be able to jack himself off easily remembering just these sounds for the foreseeable future.  


The perfect heat of Le Chaton’s hole is too much, and Césaire can feel his control slipping. Before he can come, he drags his hand down to Le Chaton’s cock and strokes him in time with his thrusts. It takes half a dozen before Le Chaton shouts and comes all over his fist, his perfect ass squeezing down like a vice around Césaire’s cock. Césaire shudders, holding Le Chaton tight as he pours himself into the condom. 

His heart jackrabbiting, he pops the clasps on the ankle restraints and lowers them both to the sheets. He pulls out, giving more soothing noises as Le Chaton whimpers at the loss. “Do you want your tail back?” 

Le Chaton gives a little nod, and Césaire finds it and slips it inside the man before he gets up to dispose of the condom in the small ensuite bathroom - one of the many details in the accommodations that he loves at Écarlate. 

He’s shocked when he comes back with a warm cloth to clean up to find his sub wobbling on shaky legs to get to his shorts. The endorphins that had flooded Césaire’s system earlier seem to crash straight into adrenaline in his shock. “What’re you-” 

“I’ll- I’ll be out in a second, I just, I just need to-” Le Chaton is so obviously shaky, so terribly in need of a snack and some rehydration that Césaire pushes through his confusion to circle around the bed and take the man gently by his hand to get his attention. 

“You don’t have to leave right away, kitten. Let me get you some food, some water, some cuddles, hmm?” 

“What?” Le Chaton sounds so confused, but he’s pliant, and Césaire is able to persuade him to sit back down on the bed. 

“Aftercare,  _ mon chéri.  _ Something any good Dom would offer you.” Césaire rubs over Le Chaton’s goosebumps, worried for both of them at the sudden change of emotion in the room. He’ll be surprised if he doesn’t experience some drop later. 

“Oh,” Le Chaton mumbles faintly, allowing Césaire to press a water bottle to his lips to drink. 

They’re sweaty, and if Césaire was at home, he’d take his sub to the bathtub - tiny as it is in his closet of an apartment - and soothe out any sore muscles and let them come down more naturally. He rubs over the small of Le Chaton’s back, under the harness, and wishes he could slip the man’s mask off and sweep his sweaty blonde bangs away from his forehead, but the man had set an explicit limit regarding the mask before they’d played. It’s not unusual, wanting to maintain a bit of secrecy in the club despite Livinia’s rather lax opinions on places like sex clubs.

“Sorry,” Le Chaton murmurs against Césaire’s shoulder, accepting a hand-fed apple slice. 

“No apologies necessary. Just- whomever you play with in the future, make sure they offer you this, or report them to the DMs here at Écarlate. Drop isn’t fun.” 

Le Chaton gives him a quiet nod, and they stay quiet as they share the rest of the apple. When Le Chaton is no longer trembling, Césaire helps him into his shorts and out the door. As they reach the entrance area at the front of the club, though, Le Chaton stops, dropping Césaire’s hand. “I’ll leave you here. Thank you, sir.” 

The man is so fundamentally different from the flirt who’d charmed him at the bar, Césaire feels a bit shell-shocked. “But-” 

“I’m very sorry, but I have to go another way. Thank you for a wonderful time.” Le Chaton sounds stiffly formal as he goes through coat check and wraps himself in a large black trench coat. 

“We could exchange-”

Césaire’s mouth drops open, probably unattractively, when a discreet bodyguard materializes out of nowhere and whisks Le Chaton away. 

“-Numbers,” he finishes to the room empty of everyone but himself and the coat check attendant. He turns to the young man, who is obviously bored and passing the time between clients on his phone. “That man, have you seen him here before?” 

“The cat dude? Nope, sorry.” 

Frowning at the door that Le Chaton had disappeared behind, Césaire asks for his own coat. He sticks his hands in the deep pockets as he walks home, frustrated. He’d come out to celebrate and indulge himself, and maybe even distract himself from what could possibly be the most important meeting he ever has in his life on Monday, and now he’s a mess of weird feelings and nerves. 

Strange, how he barely knows the man and yet he’s left feeling like a world where he never sees Le Chaton again is a world that doesn't shine quite as brightly as before.  



	4. Running with him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel agrees to be more welcoming to Cesaire, and they both start to learn a little more about each other.

“Monseigneur Marchand.” 

Michel winces at the formal address. There’s enough censure in Flore’s voice to stop him in his tracks and turn to face her disappointment. “Mme. LeBlanc,” he attempts, only to be brought up short by her confused frown. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been intentionally avoiding me all day.” 

_ Not you, _ he wants to say. “I’m very sorry. There’s been a bit of a fuss to deal with in Monaco with the twins, and-” 

“And you ignored the future  _ La Voix du Peuple _ all day. I  _ know _ you were raised better than that, Michel, I was there for it.” 

“Is...is M. Demaret still here?” He tries to make his voice sound hopeful, like he’ll make it all up to Sir- Césaire-  _ M. Demaret _ he finally thinks correctly, with dinner or something. In truth, he has no plans to talk to the man anytime soon. Better not to give him any chance to associate Michel Marchand with  _ Le Chaton. _

“He’s left for the afternoon to finalize some paperwork. Michel, you practically hand picked this man sight unseen. You convinced  _ several _ of our moderates to approve him. I’m surprised at your behavior.” Flore gives Michel the full force of her frown, which has always worked much better than any censure the king or queen ever tried. 

“I’m sorry, Flore,” he mumbles, attempting sincerity. He is truly sorry he’s disappointed her, but- but he’s going to have to figure out a solution to this problem and right now, the only solution he's come up with is  _ flee. _ He’ll think of a better plan later. “I’ll make it up to both of you tomorrow at the council meeting.” 

Flore’s frown doesn’t move. “I was hoping you’d sit with him  _ before _ the meeting, so you could appear before the council as a united front. You  _ know _ your support is vital to his work here. Don’t jeopardize that for him.” 

Cheeks flushed, Michel feels the censure in his soul. He  _ had  _ handpicked Césaire after all, suitably impressed by his many accomplishments in so short a time at the firm. Perhaps, as Flore seemed to imply as a tease, falling in love with the man on the paper, just a little. An innocent crush that would never, could never go anywhere because it’s a conflict of interest for  _ La Voix _ to be involved romantically with someone in the royal family. 

Why should Césaire’s life be ruined just because Michel had been too weak to resist the temptation to lose himself for a few short hours? 

Chewing on his lip, Michel comes to a decision. “I’ll meet with him before we go to see the council, of course. He’s going to do amazing work for the people, and I want it understood that he has my full support.”

Flore inclines her head, but her suspicious gaze still falls on Michel. “I told him to be here at 7 for your morning constitutional.” 

Michel almost snorts at the old-fashioned language. He runs a five k every morning; it had been in Césaire’s favor, actually, that the man had been a track star in grade school. The tiny detail had been one of the many things that had intrigued Michel about him on paper. 

But if they’re both concentrating on the run, that might mean Michel will be able to distract him enough to keep him from thinking of  _ Le Chaton.  _ He nods. “Excellent.” 

It’s only when Michel retires for the evening, after a very stilted dinner with the king - and therefore any number of distinguished guests - that he lets himself think about Césaire again. His face flushes, and his stomach ties itself in knots. He’d known the risks, and he’d taken them anyway, and now he has to face the consequences. 

If, at the end of it, he’s lost his country’s faith and his family’s love, then-

Michel thinks of Césaire’s arms around his trembling body, holding him close in the aftermath of their time together. 

-he wants to tell himself it will have all been worth it, but he can’t quite bring himself to. 

Still, it’s Césaire he thinks of when he pulls the covers up over his shoulders and attempts to sleep. It’s the thought of Césaire wrapping himself around Michel, spooning him from behind, that finally lulls him into his dreams.

Césaire remembers reading about Prince Michel’s running habit in some teeny-bopper magazine when he’d been a teenager himself - he’s only a year younger than the prince’s 28, so he’d sort of grown up with him. Michel had told the magazine that running helps him clear his mind, and the article had been interspersed with paparazzi pictures of Michel sprinting, gangly teenage limbs and all, in running gear, bodyguards never far away. Embarrassingly, the article was what had encouraged Césaire to go out for track in high school.

Gangly, awkward teenage Michel has nothing on the Michel that’s in front of him now, doing a toe touch stretch, his extremely short running shorts showing every defined running muscle in his legs. It’s probably not appropriate for Césaire to ogle the prince, but he can’t help letting his eyes travel over the lean calves covered in fine blonde hair, or the round glutes that stretch the running shorts. To distract himself, he turns away and stretches, too, but it’s not like any amount of stretching will allow him to keep up with the prince’s well-known six-minute k pace. 

The prince is more relaxed here than he had been yesterday; perhaps this feels more like home territory for him. Césaire himself hasn’t really kept up with running, preferring strength training these days. Not that cardio isn’t important, but he’s always enjoyed having the ability to heft his play partners into various positions. 

Still, Michel’s voice is stiff when he unbends and says, “Your work last year with the education bill was impeccable.” 

And...that’s as good an opening as any, Césaire supposes. “Thank you.” He goes for what he hopes is a charming smile, and becomes confused when Michel stiffens and looks away from it. Still, he presses on. “My mother was a teacher.” 

“Then I thank her for her service. It’s one of my biggest regrets that their royal highnesses decided I must be sent abroad for schooling. I would have much preferred to be with my people, I think. My children will be staying here.” Michel, inexplicably, blushes. “When I have them, of course.” He coughs, then jogs in place a little to warm up. “Ready?” 

“Lead the way, Monseigneur.” 

If anything, Michel’s pale skin goes even redder. “You can call me Michel, of course. We’ll be working together enough, I’m sure.” 

Césaire’s left looking at Michel’s back as he turns to start his run, so he gets into pace behind him, frowning. The prince hadn’t seemed very comfortable with asking Césaire to address him informally, or at the idea of them working together. He watches Michel in silence for a few more minutes as they warm up, and it’s almost as if he can see the moment Michel loses himself to the run. His shoulders come away from his ears, his gait smooths, his arms swing effortlessly at his sides. He becomes a whole different person from the strange awkward creature Césaire has known so far.  


It’s enough to stir the decade old crush he’s had on his prince, along with every other male-interested person he’d known in grade school. 

He’ll have to lecture himself on the impropriety of it later, when he’s not attempting to keep pace with a freaking gazelle. 

“Don’t feel bad, you made it 2k at his pace, most people do half that and quit.” The attendant from yesterday grins at Césaire as he shows him to a guest room to shower and change. 

“David, right? Thanks.” Césaire holds out his hand again for the older man, who shakes it warmly. 

“You’re very welcome. Just hit this button right here and someone will come collect you for breakfast with the council.” 

“David, what exactly is it that you do?” 

David smiles at him, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his brown suit jacket amiably. “I believe the best answer to that would be, ‘Anything the prince would like me to do.’” 

Césaire laughs, accepting it at face value. “Thanks, again.” 

Though he means to be efficient in the shower, he finds his mind drifting to Michel, to those runner’s legs and delectable ass. When he realizes he’s half-hard, though, he clears his throat, putting his face directly in the spray. 

“You  _ cannot _ think of him that way,” he lectures himself, steadfastly refusing to bring his hand down to relieve his desire. 

As if on cue, his mind flits away from the fantasy of Michel’s toned legs wrapped around his waist while he fucks him into the shower wall, and moves to the much more real thought of _ Le Chaton, _ looking up at him with such trust as he uses the kitten’s mouth. 

Tying Le Chaton up, making him look so pretty in rope. Flogging the kitten until his fine ass is red and burning. With a gasp, Césaire takes himself in hand and strokes, his orgasm coming quickly at the thought of sinking into Le Chaton’s tight heat once again. 

He feels faintly embarrassed after his shower when he dries himself off. He should have better control than to get himself off in his employer’s bathroom, in the  _ royal palace, _ of all places, but he’s always been a person who views orgasms with almost a sense of efficiency. 

So, despite the embarrassment, both the run and the orgasm have filled him with a bright energy, and he quickly dresses in the suit he’d brought to change into. By the time one of the palace’s servants has come to take him to the breakfast meeting, Césaire feels confidence in every atom of his body. 

That confidence gets challenged in the breakfast room as he has his first discussions with some of the council members who have traditionally believed  _ La Voix _ to be a little too radical, nevermind that La Voix is supposed to represent  _ all _ the people, but Mme. LeBlanc is there to deflect some of it. He's most surprised, though, when he's having a lively debate with one of the more conservative members of the council about the possibility of free college, and the prince, who'd been sitting quietly through most of the morning meal, ostensibly observing, breaks in. 

“The University of Livinia is one of the highest rated in Europe. It competes with Oxford, for goodness sake. Are you saying, M. Talmeaux, that all of our children don't deserve such a brilliant education? Livinians should be the first on the acceptance list.” Michel holds up his hand when the council member looks like he wants to interrupt. Amazingly, the obstinate man quiets; the power of a single royal hand, Césaire muses. “And don't tell me that it will water down the education at our prestigious institution. The research backs me up.”

Césaire is a little thunderstruck. The prince had said it so amiably, but left no room for debate. Handled it like he's been training for it all his life. Of course he has, but until this moment, Césaire had only ever thought of the prince as the prince, and not as the future king. 

Césaire cocks his head, and listens more intently to the prince as he softly debates, and eventually placates the conservatives. 

“And you’ll be working with the Voice-in-training on this higher education plan, yes, Monseigneur? I imagine you’re going to have to complete a lot of groundwork if you want to convince more than just me.” 

It’s M. Talmeaux asking the question. He obviously thinks Michel might temper some of Césaire’s more radical ideas, like how he thinks trans rights are human rights and how no child should go to school hungry, that sort of radical thing. That the request comes from M. Talmeaux is not strange; what’s odd is how Michel reacts to it. Just like when they’d met yesterday, Michel goes as pale as a ghost, until Césaire is worried that the prince is just going to keel over right there in the leftovers of his eggs benedict. 

Or maybe leftovers isn’t the right word, because it’s apparent, to Césaire at least, that Michel did a lot of cutting up food and pushing it around his plate, and not a lot of eating it. He looks a little green, in fact, like he might throw up. 

All of this seems to pass in a moment as Michel clears his throat and nods. “Of course, M. Talmeaux. If that’s what the council thinks is best. It’s a wonderful way to introduce Césaire - M. Demaret, I mean - to Livinia.” 

Césaire nods his consent, and tries not to frown at Michel’s behavior. 

If the prince doesn’t like him, it’s just going to have to be Césaire’s job to stick around until he does. They’re going to be working together for a long time, after all, if everything works out. 


	5. Cesaire's grand plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I've just decided I like Sunday-Tuesday-Thursday posting better, so that's what I'm going to do. 
> 
> Cesaire follows through on Operation "Get Michel to Tolerate My Presence"
> 
> Tags added: minor injuries, mild hurt/comfort

“Back for another round, hmm?” David’s looking at him, half-amused, half-something else Césaire can’t quite identify as Césaire is led to the courtyard where Michel always starts his runs in the morning. 

Phase 1 of the “Get Michel to at least tolerate my presence” plan involves spending more casual time with Michel. Hence, here he is, glutton for punishment, all dressed up for the morning run two days in a row. 

“I need to work on my endurance,” Césaire replies as Michel steps out of the palace. 

He waits for it - and yes, there’s the small jolt Michel always seems to give when he sees Césaire unexpectedly. “Did we have a meeting, Césaire?” 

“I thought we could get to know each other a little better.” _And you seem most comfortable here,_ he doesn’t add. 

Michel nods, somewhat begrudgingly. “Of course, you’re welcome to join me any time.” He bends over, starting his stretching routine. 

_Well, it’s not outright rejection,_ Césaire thinks. 

As Césaire works with the prince, he comes to relish one particular time of day; it’s during the run, the point at which they’ve stopped chatting and Michel lets his stride lengthen and shoulders drop. It seems like the only time Césaire really _sees_ Michel for who he is, not his title, not his royal presence, just Michel as a person. He loves watching that change come over Michel, loves how relaxed Michel always seems at the end of their runs. 

Hates how Michel always seems to tighten back up again as soon as they start working together after the run.

Still, he learns a lot from Michel as they visit deans and professors and loan officers. He almost wonders what Michel even needs him for; he seems to be doing an excellent job of remembering the people of the country all by himself. 

It’s not until they meet with Mme. Girard of Livinia’s banking district that Césaire understands his purpose precisely, and honestly, he’s a little upset that it took him this long to figure it out. 

“Your demands are ridiculous,” Mme. Girard complains, looking through their proposal. “There’s no way the people of my district will agree to this.” 

Frustrated, Césaire forgets himself and raises his voice. “The people of your district, Madame, aren’t the people who need it. But every person benefits from an educated society, everyone! Especially the bankers!” 

Michel sets a hand on his arm, quieting him without sparing him a glance. “Mme. Girard, I understand your district’s fears. Perhaps if we could look at this proposal, instead.” 

He produces a different folder from his briefcase, and slides a paper each to Césaire and Mme. Girard. As he calmly talks Mme. Girard through it, Césaire scans it himself. It’s...fundamentally no different from what Césaire originally proposed, with a few percentage tweaks here and there. A spike of anger flares up inside him until Michel glances over at him while Mme. Girard is distracted by the paper, and _winks._

Twenty minutes later, they’re in the royal town car, a big, black, bulletproof monstrosity, victorious. 

“You wanted me to get frustrated with her.” 

Michel raises his eyebrow. 

“You wanted me to get frustrated with her, so your quote-unquote alternative, which is fundamentally the same agreement, would seem reasonable to her.” 

Michel looks out at the street beyond, a small smile lifting his lips. “Next time I’ll warn you beforehand?” 

Césaire relaxes into the seat, then laughs, and keeps laughing until the prince joins him. He wipes a little moisture from his eye. “Are you sure you’re not the one that went to law school?” 

“In the courtroom, you need to be cunning, manipulative, but here, as the Voice, you need to be...passionate. You’re the people, all of them, not just _her_ constituents. She needs to hear that frustration because it’s the frustration that’s running through the streets of our country like a live current. You, you are their outlet, Césaire. You should never be restrained, never be muzzled. That’s _my_ cross to bear.” 

Michel turns back to the street after this little declaration, but his lips are still curving upward in mirth, and Césaire finds he wants to plant a kiss right there, at the corner of his mouth where it’s just trying to smile. He wants to kiss the smile from Michel’s face, press Michel underneath him on the bench seat and kiss him senseless until he’s as relaxed as he gets on the third k of his run.

Michel glances over at him before he can school his face away from his desire and blushes before averting his eyes quickly again. Almost as if...Michel could read the intent in Césaire’s eyes. Which is not something, at least not in Césaire’s experience, that straight men can often do. 

Curiosity overwhelms him, even as a dozen warning bells begin to chime in his head. Michel’s his _prince,_ to start, and the impropriety of the Voice and the prince having an affair would be...enormous. Then there’s the fact that Michel is most definitely not out, if he isn’t straight, and Césaire made a vow years ago to never be dragged into the closet again. He wants, deserves the love everyone else gets to have. To hold hands with his boyfriend as they walk down the street. To kiss his lover at dinner on Valentine’s Day. To introduce himself to his neighbors with his husband by his side. All of that is hard with a closeted partner; make him the prince of Livinia, and it’s impossible. 

He needs to point his heart, and his lust, elsewhere. He hasn’t been to the club in awhile, so maybe it's time for another visit this weekend.

 _Maybe Le Chaton will be there_ is a thought he refuses to allow himself to entertain. 

“The Monseigneur doesn’t run on Friday mornings,” David announces when Césaire shows up like clockwork the next morning. 

Césaire pauses mid-stretch. “Oh.” 

“And I don’t think he’ll want you with him. If you’d like to get changed, I’m sure I can find you some council members willing to listen to your proposal this morning so your time here isn’t wasted.” 

Letting Michel go someplace else, though, doesn’t follow the plan, and Césaire hates to give up now, especially when he seems to be cracking the prince’s icy exterior even the smallest bit. “Sure,” he replies, with no intention of being left behind. 

He changes into his work clothes in record time, and actually manages to be waiting by the prince’s usual black town car when the prince and David emerge from the building. 

“Césaire! I thought, um, David informed you I wouldn’t be running today.” 

Césaire lets himself slip into lawyer mode. “I spoke to a few professors last night about their concerns, and I wanted to go over them with you before the weekend while it’s all still fresh in my mind.” 

Michel chews on his bottom lip, sharing a look with David that says, ‘I don’t know how to get rid of him, do you?’ But before David can get involved, Césaire opens the town car’s door for Michel and gestures him inside, talking all the while about the professors, who, yes, he _had_ met with last night, but he’d taken meticulous notes, so it’s not like he’s going to forget what they said. 

Before Michel and David seem to realize it, Césaire’s sitting in the back with them, feeling smug. Michel, for his part, has his brows drawn together. After studying Césaire for a long minute, he taps the ceiling of the car, the signal to the driver that they can go. 

When he speaks, it’s the most steel Césaire has ever heard in Michel’s voice. “Please understand that I’m allowing you to stay here because I believe it’s important-” Michel coughs, as if choking on the words for some reason, “-important that we remain honest with each other. Césaire, my Friday morning visits are extremely personal, and not something I want leaking to the press, or even to the people. Where we are going, I’m not the Prince, do you understand?” 

Césaire nods, grave and surprised. “Absolutely.” 

Michel meets his gaze, apparently deciding that his answer is good enough. 

Of course, now that Césaire’s made the excuse, he actually does have to talk about what the professors said, and he engages Michel in a lively conversation in the car until they reach their destination. 

It seems like a nondescript house, until Michel opens a door to let them onto the porch and Césaire sees a full handwashing station along with face masks. He follows Michel around in a little bit of monkey see, monkey do, as Michel shrugs out of his light summer jacket, rolls his sleeves up and washes his hands thoroughly, and finally dons a surgical mask that covers his mouth and nose. There’s something weirdly familiar about the look, but Césaire can’t place it. David settles down in a corner of the porch and pulls out his laptop to work, so apparently he’s not joining them. 

When they’re properly prepared, a man in scrubs and a mask opens the house door and lets them in, his eyes crinkling in an indication of a smile. “Welcome back, M. Moreau. Sophia is so excited to play today.” 

Césaire looks over at Michel, hoping his confusion isn’t too obvious. “My associate, M. Demaret, will be joining us today. As the future _La Voix,_ he needs to know about every facet of the people, yes? M. Demaret, this is Jacques.” 

Jacques nods politely without offering Césaire a hand so they don’t both have to wash up again, probably. “I’m happy to give you a tour, M. Demaret, while M. Moreau gets to work with Sophie's group.” 

“Um-” Césaire shakes off his curiosity. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.” 

Michel has already walked away, obviously knowing exactly where he should be, so Césaire follows Jacques further into the house. It’s a relic of the early 20th century, Césaire would guess, perhaps from the housing boom after WWI like many of the buildings in this district. They pass a couple of other nurses or personnel in face masks as Jacques leads him through. “The Marchand House was started to care for children in need of long term hospital care, but for whom long stays at the hospital might be detrimental to their mental health. We can provide more of a ‘home’ than the hospital can, so if it’s a diagnosis we can deal with here that doesn’t need a whole lot of extra equipment that needs 24-hour supervision, we can house the kids here.” 

“Marchand House?” 

“Hmmm, yes, I believe it was our king’s father who first started the funding.” 

Césaire meets Jacques’ eyes over their masks. “And do you enjoy the continued support of the crown?” 

Jacques crinkles his eyes again. “Indeed, the current royal family has been very giving.” 

That settles the question of whether Jacques knows who M. Moreau really is, then. 

Their tour leads them back to the front room, where Césaire can see Michel sitting on the floor, holding up a small white board and having a few children in front of him practice their letters. 

“We have regular tutors, of course, but M. Moreau is well-loved here. We value his time as much as he values his privacy. We’d hate to lose him, it would be such a blow to the children.” 

The thinly-veiled warning lands for Césaire, loud and clear. He’s sort of amazed that Michel let him see this in the first place, if it means so much to him. 

His heart lurches in his chest when he realizes that ‘old crush’ is doing more than just renewing itself, it’s actually taking hold in him. He definitely needs to go to Écarlate and take his mind off of the prince, and soon.

The slippery leaf, Césaire swears, comes out of nowhere. One second he’s running, actually keeping pace with the prince for once, and the next he’s on the ground, his leg on fire.

Michel rushes back to him, crouching down beside him and helping him into a sitting position to examine his leg. “Are you all right?” 

God damn it, but the care and concern in Michel’s eyes is too addicting. When the prince lets himself out of his shell, the effect on Césaire is devastating. “I think I’m fine. Slipped on something, just a little shook up.” 

“You’re bleeding.” Without a second thought, Michel strips off his running tank and presses it against the scrape on his leg. It stings like hell now, as Césaire moves past the shock, and he hisses. Michel’s hands immediately loosen. “I’m so sorry, Césaire.”

Césaire brushes that off, twisting to examine the damage. There’s a long scrape down his calf, some road rash, but the bleeding is already sluggish. It’s going to be annoying as it heals, but nothing’s permanently damaged. “It’s okay. Thanks.” 

He turns towards Michel, and realizes their faces are inches apart. It would take nothing to close the gap, to pull his prince into a kiss, to run his hands over Michel’s strong, sweaty chest and mouth over one of his nipples, peaked from morning chill and exercise. Michel looks a bit like a deer caught in headlights, just breathing with Césaire, until he moves in a fraction of an inch and Césaire’s almost convinced himself to go for it. 

“First aid kit, Monseigneur.” One of Michel’s bodyguards drops to his knee and unknowingly breaks them apart. 

Césaire leans back on his hands to let the prince and the bodyguard fuss over cleaning the scrape and applying a bandage as best they can. He gets distracted by a black mark along Michel’s ribs that he finally recognizes as a tattoo. 

“Dum vita est, spes est;.”

Michel looks startled, smoothing a hand over the obviously long-healed tattoo that no paparazzo has captured on film, at least to Césaire’s knowledge. “I- yes. A college choice, you know how it is.” 

“One you regret?” 

Michel meets his eyes as the bodyguard moves away. “Not at all. Just one the public doesn’t need to know about.” He holds out his hands to help pull Césaire up. 

He has to limp a little, work the stiffness out of his leg, but Michel slings an arm around his waist to give him support. It surprises Césaire to his bones, considering it’s been weeks and the prince _still_ jolts every time he sees Césaire unexpectedly. “It’s been awhile since my law school Latin course, and that was all legal phrases anyway. I recognize ‘life’ and ‘it is,’ though.” 

“While there’s life, there’s hope,” Michel murmurs, looking away from him again as they work their way back to the palace building. 

It clicks, all of a sudden, where Césaire’s seen the semicolon tattoo before. That whole big social movement to bring awareness to suicide and mental illness. He has a dawning feeling that he’s just learned something incredibly private about his prince and he’s never going to be able to look at him the same way again. Amazing how often that’s been happening, lately.

“Truer words,” he replies when he can’t think of anything else to say. By then they’ve reached the palace and Michel leaves him in David’s capable hands anyway. 

David takes one look at the way Césaire’s gaze lingers on Michel’s retreating figure and wraps a hand around his bicep. “Let’s get you cleaned up, M. Demaret.” 

Césaire’s surprised at the treatment, but quickly follows along with David’s sharp tug. When he finds himself in the guest bedroom he’s always shown to for his morning shower, though, David’s fingers dig in a little deeper, a warning. 

“What the-” 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Césaire. Michel is a man with a country of responsibilities, and no choice in the matter, unlike you. His family’s expectations-” David cuts himself off, releasing Césaire’s arm and clasping his hands together instead. “You cannot understand the pressure on him.” 

Césaire frowns, rubbing over the marks David’s fingers left. “You’re right, I don’t understand, but not him. I don’t understand _this,_ what, a warning? A warning about what? Do you think just because I’m gay, I’m going to accost our prince with my unwanted advances? I can keep it in my pants, unlike some other members of the royal family, apparently.”

David meets his eyes defiantly. “It’s not _your_ control I’m worried about tempting, Césaire. He’s-” The older man blows out a breath, walking away to stare out the window before looking back at Césaire. When he does, he looks...helpless. “He’s on a razor’s edge, Césaire. He’s holding on by a thread, and when that thread breaks-” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m not sure what he’ll do this time. And your...interest, it only adds pressure.” 

“Because my interest would...not be immediately rejected.” Césaire tries to put it as delicately as possible, the idea they’re all skirting around. _The prince is_ not _straight, but he can’t not be straight, so…_

“If you need to know that for your ego,” David replies with venom, “no, your advances would more than likely not be rejected because of preference. What scares me is what rejecting you may do to him. One more thing he’s not allowed to have, working with him everyday. The least you can do is...not look at him that way. For the good of the country, and for the good of our prince.” 

Without another word, David swings out the door, leaving Césaire alone with his thoughts. He tries to drown them out in the shower, but with the sting of the water on his leg, it’s hard not to think about Michel. His sweet, vulnerable prince. Intelligent and kind and damaged. So obviously damaged. 

With a groan, he scrubs his face and convinces himself to take David’s advice. No need to damage the prince any more.


	6. At the club again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Different circumstances bring Cesaire and Michel together at the sex club again. 
> 
> There are some intense warnings for this chapter (they are already in the tags) but I've put them in the end notes so they don't spoil. Please check and protect yourself.

“Promise me you’ll be safe.” 

Michel resists the urge to roll his eyes at Nadia because he’s currently applying eyeliner. “I’m always safe,” he replies with the little amount of snark he’s allowed to show his best friend, even if it’s not actually true.

He can justify the fact that he likes to get hurt, that it gets him off, that pain is the only thing that’ll take him out of his head for even a few short minutes, maybe even hours, if he’s not harming himself. If he’s going to find a Dom at the club, it’s okay. It’s safe. 

Besides, he can defend himself if someone decides to make it unsafe for him. 

And he _needs_ this right now. He’s been good for weeks, and that’s with Césaire constantly around him, with his stupid handsome face and his stupid built body and his stupid amazing personality, and all that combined with the fact that Michel knows he’s not only a competent Dom, but the best one Michel’s ever played with? He _deserves_ this. Even if it’s not playing with Césaire.

“You’ve never been back to the same club, either. I’d feel better if I went with you.” 

“They’d have no trouble identifying me if you were there, you know.” Michel admires his eyes in the mirror, loving the effect of the mascara in darkening his normally light lashes. 

“So let’s go to Rome for the weekend, or Paris. Find a place you haven’t been to before.” 

“I’m expected to give the keynote address at the charity luncheon tomorrow. I’m sure you remember, you RSVP’d.” 

“My secretary RSVP’d.” She moves behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders and squeezing gently. “I worry, Michel, that’s all.” 

“Worry that your father won’t approve of our marriage if I’m caught up in a sex scandal?” 

Nadia looks hurt, and Michel has the grace to feel regret at his hasty words. “You know that’s not how it is for us.” 

He turns his head to press a kiss to Nadia’s arm. “I know, love. I’m sorry. I just- I can’t- I have to do this, tonight. I feel like I’m about to explode, and I certainly can’t explode tomorrow, with the Marchand Foundation counting on these donations.” 

“I know, too.” Nadia leans over, hugging him from behind and dropping a kiss in his blonde waves. “Just promise me you’ll be safe, _mon chéri._ Please.” 

“I’ll be safe.” It’s as close to the truth as he can make it. “Are we good to go?” 

She sighs, letting him go to stride back over to her laptop to check. “Cams are on an organic loop and your bodyguards are waiting for you. As far as anyone outside of us knows, you’re spending a lovely evening in with your bride-to-be.” 

Michel stands and pulls the trench coat over his outfit for the evening - a simple pair of slacks and shirt covering over the black lace panties and camisole he’ll strip down to at the club, his kitten tail plug already in place. He wraps his arms around Nadia, hugging her tightly. “Thank you.” 

“When we’re married, I’m going to hire a secretary-by-day, Dom-by-night so you can be happy, Michel.” 

“I am happy.” A full on lie, of course, and Nadia knows it. She just sighs, crossing with him to the door.

“I’ll see you tonight.” 

“You don’t need to wait up-” 

_“I’ll see you tonight,”_ Nadia repeats more firmly. “You know I won’t be able to sleep until you’re home safe.” 

“Okay, okay.” He leans over, brushing a kiss on her cheek. “Love you.” 

She waits until he’s in the elevator, then calls after him one last time, “Be safe!” 

Stepping out into a sex club as _Le Chaton_ always makes Michel feel giddy, nerves alight and sensitive already. He knows he looks good, but as he moves through the club, green bracelet loud and bright on his wrist, the admiring stares he gets make his stomach flutter with excitement. 

He avoids the bar on some misguided hope that he won’t see Césaire that way - really, what are the odds, anyway - and heads out to the dance floor to get lost among the bodies. When he feels someone solid and warm behind him, he doesn’t even look, just starts grinding, the guy’s hard cock rubbing against his plug and making his limbs want to shake with desire. 

“You’re hot, pretty kitty,” the deep voice murmurs in his ear, making Michel shiver. Not Césaire, then.

Now Michel gives him a glance, enough of one that he can answer, “You are too, sir.” 

The stranger drapes a hand possessively over his stomach, pulling him in closer, and they don’t talk for another few songs. It feels _so good_ just to be against the other man’s body, be guided by him. When the man cups his chin and angles his head so he can take Michel’s mouth, Michel puts up no resistance. The stranger feels glorious against his lips. 

“Want to go someplace a little more private, baby?” 

Michel nods, slipping more into his headspace when the man lightly pushes him off the dance floor - he likes it rough, after all. He needs the pain tonight. 

He’s enough out of his head that he barely registers where the man is taking him - just to the alley out back, not to one of the private rooms - which should ring alarm bells in his head, but then he’s being pushed against the wall and kissed senseless and Michel has just been _Michel_ for so long that he can’t stand it anymore. And maybe Le Chaton likes to get fucked dirty against a brick wall. Maybe that’s what Le Chaton deserves. 

“You like pain, princess?” the man asks, making Michel freeze up. But there’s no indication it’s anything beyond a pet name, so Michel nods frantically. 

He really shouldn’t compare, but he can’t help but notice how Césaire had made sure to cover his safewords, his limits. This Dom hasn’t asked, just taken, and Michel accepts that that’s how it’s going to be tonight as he’s pushed against the brick wall, ass out and ripe for the taking. 

“Look at you, such a fucking slut. Look what you’re wearing.” The man is rough with Michel’s panties, and Michel hears a ripping sound before there’s a bright-white pain against his asscheek. 

He’d been completely unprepared for the blow, hadn’t braced himself, and the jolt knocks his head into the brick wall hard enough to see stars. “Wait-” he gasps, forgetting his safewords and unsure of what to use anyway. His temple throbs just as much as his asscheek, but at least he’s braced when the next blow comes. 

He waits, waits for the pain to lick over into pleasure, to find that white-hot field where he can rise above, float, float, float, but it’s not coming. The man digs his fingers into the meat of Michel’s ass, where he’d hit, deepening the bruise, and Michel’s so very confused. It’s supposed to feel _good,_ it’s supposed to make him forget everything. His breath sobs against the brick, waiting for a color check that doesn’t come. 

Césaire’s restless, prowling the club. He’s noticed a few subs he’s played with before, but no one is tempting him. 

_Because no one is Le Chaton,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully as he takes a seat at the bar. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” the bartender, Tristan, says, sliding him a glass of water. Césaire knows him from previous visits of course, but also because he and Tristan have similar friend circles in the queer community here in Livinia.

Césaire is immediately suspicious, but Tristan holds a hand up. “Don’t worry, _La Voix,_ Écarlate is a place of privacy. I meant, it’s funny you should show up on the same night as that pretty young thing you courted last time.” 

Césaire pauses mid-sip and perks up. “Le Chaton is here?” 

Tristan looks out across the club. “He was on the dance floor a few minutes ago. Hot and heavy with someone, looked like a newbie Dom. Not quite sure where they went, though.” 

Césaire frowns, turning to search as well, and tells himself he’s not just being possessive when he worries about the relative newcomer Le Chaton with another newbie who might not treat him right. He tsks at himself, and turns back to Tristan. “Well, then I hope they’re having fun. And thank you for the reassurance about my privacy.” 

He stays and chats for a few minutes, but it’s clear the news of Le Chaton has turned his heart from play tonight. Everyone else pales in comparison, and the kitten has chosen a different companion for the evening, a decision he’ll obviously respect. Sighing, he pushes away from the bar, grabs his coat from the coat check, and decides to head out the back way because it’s closest to his car. 

“You like that, don’t you, you little slut?” 

The words, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, turn his head, and he almost writes it off as a couple having some fun without having to pay for one of the private rooms. Certainly not great etiquette but they’re expensive, so he understands. He almost leaves them behind, and that _almost_ will haunt his days forever, but stops when he sees the cat ears. Turns when he hears Le Chaton’s breath hitch in a sob. 

When he notices the trickle of blood underneath Le Chaton’s mask, he strides forward. “Le Chaton? Color?” 

“Fuck off,” the stranger growls. “This slut’s mine.” 

“I was asking the kitten a question, not you. Blood’s on his hard limit list.” Césaire comes closer, close enough that the other guy tries to shove at him. Césaire shoves back, slightly more coordinated since he doesn’t have his jeans stuck around his knees. He feels some slight relief at the site of the Dom's dick still trapped in his underwear, that it hadn't gotten that far at least.

“Le Chaton, listen to me, kitten,” Césaire murmurs, his heart beating wildly in his chest, all at once wanting to be wrong, hoping that Le Chaton is into the rough play and isn’t being violated. “Can you give me a color, _mon chéri?”_

Le Chaton sobs, but he moves one of his hands from where he’d been bracing himself against the wall, and makes the V hand signal Césaire had taught him for ‘stop.’ 

“We’re stopping, kitten. We’re stopping.” Césaire pulls Le Chaton to his chest, wrapping his arms around him to warm him from the night chill. His panties and camisole are torn, his ass dark red and purpling. And then there’s the blood, gently seeping down his head behind his mask. Le Chaton collapses against him, sobbing, his skin practically vibrating from tremors. 

He types out a quick text as the other Dom argues with him, trying to justify his actions or some shit. Césaire keeps him talking long enough for the bouncers to come collect the guy and, hmm, _reiterate_ the rules of the club elsewhere. With their fists, hopefully. 

Césaire wraps the kitten in his coat and takes him back inside to one of the private rooms. “Can I help get you cleaned up, Le Chaton?” 

Le Chaton seems to shake at his words, but when Césaire tries to let go, the kitten only pulls him back and sobs against his chest until he cries himself out. 

Césaire eases them into the bed, sitting against the headrest as he cradles the sub in his arms. He tries to take stock of Le Chaton’s injuries while he waits, and it’s the head wound that worries him the most. Could be fine, could need stitches, as is the nature of head wounds. He pushes his coat off of Le Chaton’s shoulders and rubs over his skin with his hand, warming the man and trying to bring him back from sub drop with soothing words. He lifts away the tatters of Le Chaton’s camisole to check his ribs, then freezes in shock. 

There, in a black scroll under his pectoral, is a tattoo which reads _“Dum vita est, spes est;.”_

Césaire stays frozen, trying to make the new information work in his brain. He takes a shaky breath, in and out, images of Michel and Le Chaton swirling around in his mind. It seems so obvious now.

 _“Mon chéri, mon chaton,_ I need to clean up your face,” he murmurs, lifting one hand to the elastic band holding on the mask. 

Michel stiffens in his arms, then starts shaking violently. “No, no, no-” 

“Shhhh,” Césaire soothes. “I know, Michel. I know who you are. You’re safe with me, I promise, kitten. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I’m just worried about the cut above your eye.” 

His fingers still gripping at Césaire’s shirt, Michel leans back a little, searching his face for the truth. Whatever he finds there has him lifting his hands to slip the mask off, unveiling himself to Césaire for the first time. There he is, Michel, his upturned nose and kind brown eyes and orthodontist-perfect teeth. 

“Michel,” he breathes out, cupping his prince’s face tenderly. “Oh, _mon chaton,_ Michel.” Gently, he presses his lips to Michel’s forehead, satisfied when Michel’s trembling quiets at his touch. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” Michel mumbles as Césaire examines the cut above his eye. “No one was ever supposed to know.” 

Césaire tests himself, tries to see if he feels hurt, but it doesn’t come. He’s just filled with an overwhelming need to make sure Le Chaton, his prince, is okay. Unwilling to let Michel go, he carries him to the small bathroom and perches him on the counter while he gets a warm cloth. “Did he hit you in the face? I think the mask made this cut.” 

Michel shakes his head, wincing at the sting of the wet cloth. “He just- I mean. He spanked me, but I wasn’t expecting it and I slammed my head into the wall in reaction. Stupid.” 

Césaire frowns, though he’s happy that his examination has determined the cut doesn’t need stitches. He digs in the cupboard for the first aid kit kept in every private room, and carefully applies some antiseptic and a butterfly bandage. “You might get a black eye, but hopefully not. You’re not stupid, Michel. Inexperienced, the both of you, but inexperience in a Dom is worse than in a sub. He should never have kept going after causing you an unintentional injury.” 

“I didn’t safeword,” Michel whispers, shaking again. “I let him-” 

“No, Michel, you didn’t let him. You didn’t deserve that treatment, _mon chaton._ When I asked, you safeworded with me. I’m sorry I didn’t interrupt sooner.” 

Michel’s voice is hollow when he speaks again. “I kept waiting for it to turn good. For the pain to click into that place where it feels so, so good to hurt, but it wasn’t… It just wasn’t.” 

Satisfied with his cleaning job, Césaire carries Michel back to the bed, cuddling up with him face-to-face, hand soothing down his chest, rubbing the skin, unable to stay away. He tsks at Michel’s words, leaning in to press a kiss away from the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry, kitten.” 

Michel nods clinically. “I’m sorry, Césaire. I-” he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. 

“You knew from that first meeting, didn’t you? I didn’t wear a mask, after all. That’s why you were so shocked to see me.” 

“I just thought: here is the man who could ruin me,” Michel admits, tears evident in his voice again, breaking Césaire’s heart. 

“Your secret is safe with me, if mine is with you,” Césaire vows. 

“Of course.” Michel blinks, staring into the space between the two of them. “You must think I’m such an idiot. To risk it all for this, when I have so much, I-” His breath catches, before he lets it whistle out. “I am so blessed, why should I seek this out?” 

Cesare thinks about all of the interactions he's had with the prince the last few weeks, the answer seeming obvious once he analyzes it. “You aren't ever allowed to be yourself, Michel. Of course there's a part of you that looks for a space you can let go, even a little.”

Michel shudders in his arms. “You actually get it.” 

“A little, I think. Not fully, because I'm not a prince.”

“It's...all I was ever meant to be, but I can't, I just, sometimes I can't take it.” Michel buries his face in Césaire’s neck. “And now I, I'm going to have to give this, this playing, up.” He sounds determined. “I can't take the risk.”

Césaire hums, unsure of what to say. The silence lengthens, but it's not awkward, not with the prince here safe in his arms. His prince. His kitten. 

When Michel's breathing has calmed, his body warm and no longer trembling, Césaire sits them up. “Do you have spare clothes? These are ruined.” 

Michel nods. “I have a bag at coat check with what I wore to get here. I can ask one of my guards to bring it here.” He pulls his phone out of one of his leather boots to text.

“I’d like to make sure you get back to the palace safely,” Césaire murmurs, already feeling the edge of top-drop wanting to attack him. It’ll be worse if he can’t see his charge home.

“We actually don’t have to go that far. Just to the Lakecrest complex; my- Nadia Dutoit, my cover, lives there. That’s where I’m supposed to be.” Michel shoves sweaty blonde bangs away from his forehead then blows out a breath, looking at Césaire. Césaire can tell he’s trying to fight his embarrassment.”You’re welcome to come, of course. I’m not sure how to repay you-”

Césaire offers his hand, happy when the prince takes it and links their fingers together. “Would you mind repaying me with answers?” 

“What kind of answers?” Michel looks immediately suspicious, but they’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Wanting to save Michel some dignity, Césaire answers it, taking the bag from Michel’s bodyguard. Césaire has to hand it to the man; even though he’s seen this particular bodyguard a half dozen times since starting work at the palace, the man doesn’t look surprised at all to see him. 

Césaire hands the bag over to Michel and leans against the wall. “I’d just...like to know how you got started, what you know about BDSM and how to be safe. I wouldn’t want anyone I’ve played with to end up in the situation you did tonight, Michel, let alone my prince.” He holds his hands up, feeling helpless. “I can sign an NDA if you’re worried.” 

Michel shakes his head, pulling off the tatters of his lace camisole and fishing a plain white t-shirt out of his bag. “I, um. I’ve had problems, in the past, with self-harm.” He moves his hand away from his lap, and Césaire can see a series of fine white scar lines along the inside of his thigh. They’re obviously old, old scars, hidden enough that Césaire doesn’t remember clocking them when they’d played before. “I don’t feel the same way with BDSM that I did with cutting myself. That was a way of having something I could control, when I was younger and everything was a decision someone else made for me. At the most fundamental level, it was me proving to myself I could control my own pain. With this, with asking to be hurt, it’s- it’s when I need to _lose_ control. When I need to give myself to someone else, trust them.” 

He gives a humorless laugh. “My life seems to have bounced me between the two extremes.” Standing to pull on the pants, he makes no move to hide himself from Césaire’s eyes. “I much prefer the high of subspace to the extreme lows of self-harm.” 

“That’s good,” Césaire murmurs, slinging the prince’s bag over his own shoulder. He searches the sheets and finds Michel’s cat mask. When he offers it to the prince, Michel takes it with shaky hands. “When did you start?” 

“About a year ago. I planned it all out, bought myself an outfit piece by piece. I tried it out in Amsterdam, found someone nice willing to play. He was good and it was fun, and so a few months later, I found myself all dressed up as Le Chaton again, this time in Paris. Just when I felt like I couldn’t stand being Prince Michel anymore. Just a tiny risk.” 

“How many times have you played?” 

“Counting tonight? Five times.” Michel shivers. “I guess I just was lucky with everyone I’d played with so far. If my first time had been like tonight, I probably wouldn’t have come back.” He smiles as he slips on the cat mask, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I can’t imagine anyone would.” Césaire chews his lip, wondering if he can really extend the offer he so wants to give while still keeping his heart safe. In the end, he says it anyway, consequences be damned. “I could be your Dom.”

Michel is silent for a moment, and Césaire can feel his own heart knocking against his chest. “You'd...want that? Want me?” 

Césaire lifts a hand, strokes over one of Michel’s kitten ears then down his uncovered jaw. Michel closes his eyes and leans into the touch, perfect. “I want you as much as I did a few weeks ago when I first met you, _mon chaton._ And I want, just as much, if not more, for my prince to be safe, too.” 

His prince’s lips curve up in a little smile. Tentative, but there nonetheless. Césaire realizes he wants to bring that smile to the surface as often as possible. 

“You...hurt me so well, Césaire,” Michel murmurs, stepping closer, angling his face up to Césaire’s. “I'd very much like to play with you again.” 

Césaire runs a thumb over Michel’s bottom lip before dipping in to brush a kiss there. “Whenever you need it, _mon chaton,_ I'm at your service.” 

Michel licks his lips and nods, then laughs. “Funnily enough, Nadia suggested just such a service earlier tonight.” His eyes cloud at the thought of his future wife, though, and he frowns. “You know that we must keep it a secret, yes?” 

“I know.” Césaire runs his hand down Michel’s arm until he reaches his hand and squeezes. He ignores the screaming voice inside him that never wanted to have to closet himself again. Protecting his prince has to be worth it. He shudders to think what would have happened to Michel if he'd been even ten minutes later, and covers up the shiver by rubbing Michel’s arms. “Let’s get you to Mlle. Dutoit’s.” 

Besides, it’s not as if he and the prince are going to do anything beyond sharing some very interesting and hopefully extremely satisfying sex; Césaire’s under no illusion that it’s a real relationship. It can't be, not with their work situation, not with the life the prince has to lead. It just cant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There is an under/poorly negotiated scene not between the MCs, dubious consent also not between the MCs, "slut" slur used in play, bloody/injury, and Michel discussing past self-harm and the difference for him between self harm and BDSM.


	7. Césaire takes control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pressure continues to mount on Michel, and Césaire has a suggestion.
> 
> Tag warning: Bad Parenting

Despite having gotten back to Nadia’s late last night - actually, early this morning - and despite having asked to be driven back to the palace at the crack of dawn, Michel forces himself into the routine of his morning run the morning after the incident at Écarlate. He stumbles in shock, though, when he finds Césaire waiting for him in the courtyard, already stretching. 

He pauses, not sure how Césaire is going to treat him now that he knows he’s  _ Le Chaton,  _ that he’s a sub, that he likes to get hurt, that- 

And then Césaire meets his eyes, gives him the tiniest of nods, and says, “Beautiful day for a run, yes, Monseigneur Marchand?” 

And it  _ feels _ like he’s using Michel’s complete title as a way of showing Michel that he understands that the prince must be The Prince any time the mask is off. That he’s okay with stepping back down into his role as  _ La Voix,  _ as a partner with both the people and the crown. 

Césaire’s easygoing smile soothes something inside him, and he finds himself grinning back. “Let’s see if you think that 3k in.” 

When things feel completely normal between them, Michel can almost pretend that the rest of his life isn’t driving him toward his need to be _ Le Chaton _ again. The night at Écarlate had, predictably, done nothing to quell the intense stress inside him, despite how skillfully Césaire had pulled him back up from sub drop. He can still feel his anxiety skittering under his skin, but despite Césaire’s offer, he doesn’t want the man to think he’s overly needy or pathetic by seeking him out practically right away. 

The whole incident with the strange Dom has left Michel feeling a bit like the sour, depressive aftermath of self harm, and not the calm, sweetness of subspace. Although, at least the cut above his eye, with a little light makeup, had been easy to pass off as running into the door frame in the Rococo Room which everyone knows has raised designs that are honestly a lawsuit waiting to happen.

So he shoves his swirling feelings and anxieties deeper, focusing on the important work the council has assigned him and  _ La Voix, _ and he has a fairly firm grasp on things until the twins come back home. 

René and Emilienne’s arrival is a bit of a surprise; they still have a month of summer left before school starts again, and Michel had assumed they’d spend the entirety of break flitting about their European playground. They come home in a rush of luggage and shopping bags and yipping - though that noise is coming exclusively from Emilienne’s pet pomskies - when Michel and Césaire are in the study off the main entrance, deep in negotiations between the president of the national teacher’s union and the university. 

Michel forces a smile on his face as he stands. “Pardon me, I should see to the arrival of my siblings.” 

Césaire gives him a searching look as the rest of the group gives him leave, but Michel just keeps forcing that smile, and Césaire stays put. The negotiations are much too important for both La Voix and the prince to be drawn away. 

“René, Emilienne, it’s wonderful to have you back so soon.” He accepts air kisses from his sister and a hug from his brother, both of whom look like the personification of an Italian summer, all fresh and breezy and tan.  


“Meesh-Meesh! I swear you look more like Father every day.” Emilienne cups his face, trying to force his lips up. “It must be the frown lines. You’re giving yourself wrinkles at such a young age, darling.”

How can one be in someone else’s presence for less than five minutes and already feel exhausted? Michel gently captures Emilienne’s wrists and pulls her hands away from his face. “I’ll work on it. Do Father and Mother know you’re back?” 

“Oh, is Mother in? I thought she was in Milan ‘working’ with that designer.” Emilienne gives him a wink, and his stomach roils. If Emilienne’s heard rumors, that means their mother isn’t being very discrete with her latest affair, which means he’ll need to work quickly if he doesn’t want the King to hear of it. 

Not that his father doesn’t know about his wife’s affairs, but he becomes a bear when he thinks he’s being publicly humiliated. 

Michel mentally adds a quick flight to Milan to his schedule for the week. If he rearranges things with Césaire, he can leave tomorrow morning. “David-” he starts, knowing his assistant can’t be far away, as Emilienne turns away to finally calm one of the yapping dogs.

“Scheduling it now, Monseigneur. The jet will be ready in the morning.” 

“Thank you, David.” Michel turns back to his siblings. “I’m glad to see you both home and healthy. I’m afraid I was in the middle of a meeting-” 

“Yes, yes, it’s always very important. I’m so fucking glad you’re the heir.” René pulls out a cigarette and whips out a gold lighter, only to roll his eyes at the horrified looks Michel and David are giving him. “For fuck’s sake, I’ll take it outside.” 

“Thank you,” Michel manages in a strained, polite voice. He turns to flee before anything else can add to the swirling mess in his stomach, and runs right into Césaire at the entrance to the meeting room. “Oh-” 

“Mon ch- Monseigneur, is everything okay?”

The question gives him the second he needs to let the prince take charge of him again. “Of course.” He walks past Césaire and gives his best smile. “Monsieur, madame, we’ve been doing such hard work this afternoon. Can I interest you in some tea and refreshments in the garden? The roses are exquisite right now.” 

His smile strains a little when he looks back to see Césaire staring at him intently, as if trying to read his mind. He gives a small shake of his head, and leads their party outside.

The trip to Milan goes as well as it can. He stays to have dinner with his mother (sans her current fashion-designing lover), makes sure they get photographed by the paparazzi doing perfectly mundane non-scandalous activities like shopping, and hops back on the jet at midnight. He wouldn’t say he’s  _ refreshed _ by the nap he had in the plane, but he’s at least functional when he pulls on his running clothes to meet Césaire in the courtyard. 

He immediately feels defensive when Césaire is frowning at him, taking his best guess that the man is judging his day away. “Sometimes, the things I do as the prince aren’t world-changing, La Voix. Sometimes, it’s just shopping in Milan with my mother so my family isn’t embarrassed further.” 

Césaire’s expression clears, though his arms are still crossed over his chest, almost as if he’s trapping them there to keep from touching Michel. “That’s not- Michel, I couldn’t give two flying fucks about Milan, although we should discuss the royal family’s carbon footprint at some point. Climate change is an issue large sections of your population deeply care about,  _ mon prince.”  _

Michel winces, feeling guilty, his stomach burning. “I- we- yes. We should have that discussion. Sometimes, when my family is concerned, I...forget about other factors I need to take into account.” 

Césaire comes a little closer, a conversation for just the two of them. “I was more concerned about you burning your candle on both ends. I was honestly hoping I wouldn’t see you this morning.” 

“You came anyway,” Michel murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest, too. 

“I knew, somehow, I’d find you here,” Césaire answers wryly, his lips tipping up in a smile. 

For some reason, that smile gives Michel a little boost of energy when he’s dead tired. “Let’s kick this run’s ass.” 

Césaire does reach for him, though, before he can start jogging. “Michel, if you need...to, hmm,  _ blow off some steam, _ let me know.” 

Michel feels himself blush, looking over his shoulder to see where his bodyguards are, even though they  _ know, _ they’ve taken him to the sex clubs. Still, it’s one thing to go out at midnight as Le Chaton, and quite another to be here at the palace, vulnerable in his running gear, talking about this. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s barely been a week since the last time. I’m used to going months. I don’t need it.” 

It sounds a little ‘the lad doth protest too much’ even to his ears, so he doesn’t blame the skeptical look Césaire gives him, but he turns away, starting his jog and leaving Césaire in the dust. 

“This is very well done, Césaire,” Michel murmurs as he pages through the most recent write up of their work. “This is why you’re La Voix, you know.” 

He looks across the desk in his study, to where Césaire has been nonchalantly going through his bookshelf, and sees the small, pleased smile there. He wants to praise Césaire over and over again, just to see it.

Ridiculous. Michel shakes his head of the thought, just as his father bursts through the door. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about Milan, Michel?” The king’s brown eyes, a reflection of his own, flash in anger, and Michel rises from his desk defensively. 

“Father, the situation is handled, I’m-” 

“If the situation was handled, she’d be back here, not gallivanting around Italy pretending Livinia doesn’t even exist!” 

They have Michel’s desk between them, but the king’s anger always makes Michel want to cower. He’s learned, though, that shrinking makes it so much worse. He stiffens his spine, and prepares to take the brunt of his father’s anger at his mother. “She’ll be coming home soon, I have her word-” He pauses when the king snorts, but pushes on. “I have her word she’ll be home in time for the new  _ La Voix’s _ ceremony.” 

He nods at Césaire, who’s still at the bookcase, looking a little shell-shocked, and the king turns, red flagging his cheeks when he realizes he’s not alone with his son. He gives Césaire a stiff nod, then turns back to Michel. “You better hope she does. Imagine how humiliating that will be for our family, for  _ your _ reign.” 

Without another word, the king sweeps out of Michel’s office again, leaving both of the men in an awkward silence. “My father, madames et monseiurs,” Michel jokes, because he has to say  _ something. _ His hand shakes a little as he reaches for the glass of water on his desk.

Césaire stays by the bookcase, giving him space, which Michel appreciates. “How long have you been the punching bag in the fight between the king and queen?” 

Michel settles into his chair again, taking a fortifying sip of water. “I don’t remember,” he replies honestly. 

The other man sighs, taking a seat at one of the chairs in front of Michel’s desk. “I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you into sex, but I’m just going to suggest again…” He spreads his hands wide, leaving the statement open. 

Michel remains quiet for a moment, thinking about it, breathing through it. “Maybe…” 

“Maybe…?” 

“Maybe you  _ should, _ um, pressure me into sex. I mean-” Michel cuts himself off, choking on the words, but he’s able to meet Césaire’s eyes. “Maybe I need my Dom to tell me I need to do this, because my Dom knows better than I do.” 

Césaire’s whiskey-brown eyes seem to darken and go intense, and he looks back at the door the king had closed behind him. “Well then, I’m telling you, you need a break from this. I’m going to take you under,  _ mon chaton. _ Where is a safe place to discuss this? Where would you feel safe doing it?” 

Michel lets his spine relax a little, already feeling looser now that Césaire is on board. “My betrothed, Nadia, she owns her entire floor, but it’s split between two apartments. She keeps the other open for guests. I think that might be ideal. We already have a bit of a system set up for privacy, as you saw, and no one questions even the prince staying the night at his presumptive fiance’s apartment. If anything, it helps quell rumors about my virility.” 

Césaire wrinkles his nose. “The more I hang out with you, the more I’m grateful I’m not a prince.” 

“Honestly, sometimes I feel the same,” Michel murmurs. 

“And if you weren’t? What would you want to be doing?” Césaire looks curious - as if he actually cares about Michel’s state of mind beyond just politeness.

The answer is easy enough, given his regular Friday morning appointment; one of the activities he does to please  _ only _ himself. “I’d be a teacher. Young children, I think. They’re my favorite at the Marchand House.” 

“That would be perfect for you.” Césaire stands, crossing behind Michel’s desk and leaning a hip against it casually. His fingers smooth through Michel’s hair until they find purchase and tug, just a delicious little lick of pain that has Michel shivering. “Talk to Nadia today. I’d like to negotiate tonight, or as soon as possible, understand, mon chaton?” 

“Y-yes, sir,” Michel manages around a shaky breath. He’s fairly sure if Césaire demanded he get down on his knees and suck his cock right now, Michel would agree readily, daylight and palace and unlocked door be damned. 

“Good kitten.” Césaire releases his hair reluctantly. For a moment, Michel thinks he might dip down, steal a kiss from Michel’s lips, but instead he grabs the file Michel had complimented him on earlier. “Let me go make the changes you suggested while you take care of things, Monseigneur.” 

With a wink, he leaves Michel alone with his galloping heart and quickened breath, practically vibrating in anticipation of tonight. 


	8. Playing with Le Chaton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel and Cesaire have their first scene together. 
> 
> Tag add: Face-fucking, Daddy kink

“M. Demaret? This elevator, please.” 

Césaire follows the bodyguard, one he now recognizes after the last few months at the palace, across the fancy lobby. “We’ve never been formally introduced,” he says, offering his hand as the bodyguard uses a keycard to make the elevator operate. 

The bodyguard’s hand is warm, his shake firm. “Stefano Rossi.” 

Césaire leans back against the wall of the elevator, taking the man in. “I know it’s your job to protect the prince, but you also keep his secrets?” 

He wants to be absolutely sure that Michel won’t be publicly shamed for the affair they’re about to undertake. 

Rossi meets his eyes dead on, his determination evident. “Monseigneur Marchand is only human. I consider it my duty to...help him feel more so. For this, David compensates me very well. His secrets are just as safe with me as his life, and as long as his secrets are your secrets, you’re safe too.” He lets a small smile grace his lips. “Besides, I could never be disloyal to our prince. He’s far too kind; he needs  _ someone  _ to watch his back.” 

Césaire has to smile at that as the elevator pulls to a stop. “That he does. The prince is lucky to have you, as am I. Thank you.” 

"The prince is in Mlle. Dutoit's apartment." Rossi catches his arm as he makes his way off the elevator. “I’m sure I’m not the first to give you the shovel talk, but please know, I was in the Livinian special ops unit for 10 years before I was transferred to the prince’s guard. I know many, many ways to make you disappear if you should happen to decide that the prince’s secrets no longer need to be secrets or if you humiliate my prince in any way…” 

“You either think to offend me or scare me, but you’ve actually reassured me that our allegiances align very well. You do your prince credit, M. Rossi. Have a good evening.” 

Césaire isn’t trying to be clever; he’s greatly relieved, actually, that if the king and queen aren’t going to look out for Michel, at least he has a group of people who do care. Césaire feels proud and humbled to be a part of that group, now. 

Nadia Dutoit gives him a similar grilling when she opens the door to her apartment, but before she can get very far, Michel interrupts, flush with embarrassment, pulling Césaire away to the guest apartment across the hall. 

“Just remember what my family can do to your finances, M. Demaret,” Nadia calls, a cold smile on her face, just before Michel shuts the outside world away by closing the apartment door and leaning against it. 

“I’m so, so sorry. How embarrassing.” Michel’s cheeks are deep red, his eyes downcast, and the embarrassment is somehow making his prince seem sweet and innocent. 

Césaire can’t resist tipping Michel’s chin up with his fingers and closing the gap between them to brush a brief kiss over Michel’s lips. Michel sighs into it, melting against the door, looking over at him as if he hung the moon. “I’d be worried if they didn’t try to warn me away, you know,” he murmurs against Michel’s lips. 

Michel swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Still…” 

“We should talk.” Césaire immediately contradicts this statement by gripping Michel’s hip possessively and bringing him in for another kiss. The prince is so,  _ so _ sweet, he could stay here all night, kiss him against the door, especially when Michel whines and presses against him. 

It’s that sound, though, the one that makes his cock begin to fill his pants, that makes Césaire pull away. “Come on.” 

Though he’s never been here, it’s easy enough to figure out the layout of the ‘small’ apartment, and he sits Michel down at the dining table with his bag, then brings them glasses of water from the small kitchen. ‘Small’ is a bit of an understatement, considering his own apartment could fit in the living/dining/kitchen area of this one. Michel takes a sip as Césaire settles down next to him, pulling out a legal pad and some papers from his bag. 

“I want us to talk about what you want, and what I want, and what we absolutely don’t want, and what we’re willing to explore. Does that sound good?” 

Michel hums, and nods, pulling the papers closer - they’re lists of various kinks, some Césaire has played with, some he hasn’t. Michel gets this pretty little blush as he glances through it. “It’s a bit overwhelming, to be honest,” he mumbles.

Césaire’s fingers sweep through Michel’s hair, though he doesn’t mention aloud how the prince seems to relax at the touch. “We can take it in bite-sized chunks, if you want? We don’t have to do it all tonight. I just want us to be on the same page. If I’m going to be responsible for telling you when you need a scene, I need to know this stuff. And believe me, I really do want to be responsible for that, okay,  _ mon chéri?” _ He presses his lips to Michel’s forehead. “You deserve it, and so do I. Win-win.” 

It’s lovely to watch some of the familial angst Michel has been mired in melt off now that he’s away from the palace. “Okay, let’s do it. Bite by bite.” 

At one point, Michel gets up to grab them a fruit, cheese, and crackers tray Nadia had had her chef make for them, and they work their way through the lists while sharing bits of food. It’s mostly silent, until Michel stops and makes a confused sound, getting Césaire’s attention and pointing out something on the paper: ‘Pet play - sexual’ and ‘pet play - nonsexual.’ 

“Is this what I do? Pet play? And I thought kink was inherently sexual.” 

“To speak to the last part first, no, it’s not. There are entire worlds of kink that aren’t sexual at all; it has to do with the power exchange between Dom and sub. As for pet play...I’ve observed some puppy play scenes in my day, and it’s not really what you do when you’re  _ Le Chaton, _ but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t expand if you want. What drew you to Le Chaton in the first place?” 

Michel sits back, thinking for a moment. “There were all these different types of masks at the shop I went to, but I was drawn to the cat ears. I just felt...sexier in the cat mask? And then the tail, I mean, it’s a plug, so of course it’s sexy, but…” 

“When you slip the ears and tail on, you become someone else,” Césaire murmurs. “That’s okay. Lots of people slip into kink personas when they play. That’s not exactly pet play though; I’d have to do more research, but it’s more like...it’s not just Dom/sub. The Dom is the master, or owner, and the sub is the pet. The Dom takes care of the pet, trains the pet, gives the pet what they need, and the pet sometimes does...pet things. Crawl, wear mitts that make their hands into paws, not talk or sometimes even be muzzled, eat from a pet bowl. That’s just what I’ve seen. And sometimes the owner and the pet do other not-exclusively pet things, like bondage, pain play, et cetera. It’s not like if pet play is happening, other kinks can’t get involved too. It’s more about the power the pet is giving up to the owner, and that’s why it doesn’t have to be sexual.” 

“That’s...a lot to take in.”

“It is, yes.” Césaire links their hands and squeezes. “One good way to check these things out, if experimenting makes you nervous, is to watch porn of it, or read erotica? Porn’s obviously exaggerated for effect, but you can get the gist, the idea.” 

Michel hums, breaking their hands apart so he can add both of the pet play categories to the ‘want to explore’ list, and Césaire makes a mental note to do some more research himself. 

As they talk, and oh, how they talk, Michel slowly starts leaning into Césaire’s side until he’s cuddled against Césaire’s chest as Césaire’s fingers comb through his hair. At a particularly long yawn, Michel begs his pardon. “Let’s get you to bed, hmm, mon prince?” 

Michel groans, his fingers twisting in Césaire’s shirt. “But I-” 

He cuts himself off, so Césaire tips his head up so their eyes can meet. “Tell me, kitten. What do you want?” 

Michel meets his eyes, then looks down, submissive. “I’d like to play, sir. Just a little, before bed. Ever since you told me I needed it, it’s like I can feel it under my skin, waiting to burst out.” 

Between their scene at the club and their conversation tonight, Césaire thinks he has enough to go on to make that happen. “Did my pretty kitten bring any lovely clothes to model for me?” 

Michel nods, looking demure. 

“Why don’t you go get ready for me while I get set up in the bedroom.” With a smile, he sends Michel off with a small tap on his ass that makes him giggle and scamper off. 

Michel’s hands are shaking as he pulls on his gear. With anticipation, with a little bit of fear, not of Césaire, but just because his last experience had been so bad. Wanting to see the warm, dominating look in Césaire’s eyes as he calls him ‘kitten’ is what pushes Michel through the nerves. 

He slips on a black baby-doll nightie that closes in the front with only a little ribbon bow and drapes down over his runner’s thighs. The lace of the bodice cups his pecs beautifully. The black lace and satin panties match perfectly, too, and he admires himself in the mirror after tucking his cock to the side, already half-hard just from anticipation. 

Reaching for the lube, he bends over the counter, braces himself with one arm, and reaches back with the other to start stretching himself open for the tail plug. His lips part, his breath already starting to come in pants as he scissors himself wider. He meets his eyes in the mirror and flushes even deeper at how he looks: primed, ready for his Dom to use however the fuck he wants. His knees wobble, making his finger slide over his prostate when he was trying to ignore it, and he groans at the sudden burst of pleasure. 

There’s a swift knock at the door, and then Césaire’s strictest voice: “I didn’t say you could get off in there,  _ mon chaton, _ I said you could get ready. I’m coming in.” 

“No, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to-” Michel cries, but he specifically doesn’t use his safeword, and after a moment's hesitation where Césaire seems to be giving him the chance to protest, his Dom opens the door wide and finds him like that, fingers in his ass, bent over the counter, flush with desire. 

“Mhmm.” Césaire unbuttons his sleeve cuff and starts rolling it up over his perfect forearm in a measured way that makes Michel quiver with want. Businesslike, Césaire grabs Michel’s discarded lube, slicks his fingers up, and thrusts them inside Michel’s hole after pushing Michel’s hand away. 

Michel gasps, gripping at the counter as Césaire savagely stretches him open all while avoiding his prostate.  _ “Sir…” _ Something stirs in Michel’s gut, something he’d seen in the yes column for both of their papers. “... _ Daddy…” _

Césaire groans, pulling Michel up against his body, his fingers still fucking him, so he can get access to Michel’s throat. His lips are hot there, and Michel can’t help but watch in the bathroom mirror as Césaire presses kisses against his skin, as his hand continues to work, not caring if he’s hitting Michel’s prostate or not anymore. Michel’s skin is flushed red under the black lace of the babydoll top, and he barely recognizes himself in his eyes. This must be what he’s looked like to all his Doms, he thinks, and he’s...he’s ravishing, he decides. He tips his head back to grant Césaire better access, and closes his eyes, absolutely surrendering everything. 

“I could make you come just like this, couldn’t I, kitten? Could make you spill just by fucking you dirty against the bathroom counter, and you’d love every second.” 

Michel chokes, close, so close, already at the edge, just waiting for Césaire to send him careening over. “Yes, yes, yes-” 

Césaire’s fingers suddenly pull out, and the plug is shoved in instead, so much less satisfying that Michel groans in complaint. Césaire strikes a quick, light swat against his ass in retaliation, pushing Michel forward to lean his weight on the counter again. “Need your finishing touch, don’t you, kitten?” 

“Hmm?” It takes most of Michel’s strength to lift his head, watch Césaire in the mirror. 

Smiling, Césaire slips the cat mask over Michel’s eyes, stroking over the ears and then down into Michel’s hair. “We might have to get you something different so I can see your beautiful face,  _ mon chaton.” _

Michel whimpers, utterly lost to this man. When Césaire tugs him out of the bathroom, it’s easy to comply, even though his legs are shaky. 

Césaire sits down at the edge of the bed, and Michel notices for the first time that he kicked his shoes and socks off at some point. It’s almost cute and also unbearably sexy, his bare feet showing as he pulls Michel between his legs. Césaire hums, pulling at the elastic waistband of Michel’s panties to draw the man in, and nuzzling over the wet spot Michel’s cock has made at the front. 

“Daddy-” Michel groans, his fingers slipping in Césaire’s hair as Césaire mouths over the head of Michel’s cock through the silk of the panties. 

“Mmm, fuck, kitten.” Césaire pulls back, looking up at Michel. “Some other time I’m going to blow you so well you’ll shake to pieces, but not tonight.” He pushes at Michel’s hips until Michel is kneeling between his spread legs. 

Michel’s line of sight is right at the huge bulge in Césaire’s pants, and he unconsciously licks his lips. 

“That’s right, kitten. God, you look good on your knees for me. Give me your hands.” 

Michel doesn’t even think of noncompliance, and Césaire places them on his own knees, spreading them wider to grant Michel access to his cock. It’s still trapped in Césaire’s pants, but God, Michel  _ wants. _ He sways forward, almost out of control of his own body, until he realizes suddenly that’s exactly the headspace he wants to be in. Let Césaire be his control. Let Césaire be his safety. 

“Yes, kitten, good, fuck. You look so ready for it,  _ mon chaton.” _ Césaire lowers his fly and then he’s springing out, hot and thick and wonderful, and Michel’s mouth practically waters. “Just like this. Just like this.” 

Césaire’s hands take his head and guide him to his cock. It takes Michel a second, but then his lips are sliding over Césaire’s head, tasting the bitter precum there. He moans, so happy to finally be put to use. Even as Césaire grips his hair, he grips into Césaire’s knees and waits for his Daddy to guide him. 

“Fuck, kitten, your mouth is so sweet. Should keep you like this always. On your knees for me, mouth ready to be fucked.” He moves Michel’s head so Michel takes more of his cock, happy to let Césaire take the lead. 

The words that fall from Césaire’s mouth are filthy and gorgeous, and Michel’s whole body flushes with pride. He works Césaire’s cock as Césaire pulls his hair to guide his movements, and he totally gets lost to the rhythm of it, to the hot taste of Césaire in his mouth, to the sounds Césaire is making as he fucks him. 

He’s never deep-throated before, a fact that came up in their negotiations earlier, and Césaire doesn’t push him now. Vaguely Michel wonders if he’ll push him there eventually. God, he hopes so. He wants to take Césaire as deep inside him as he can, keep him there, help him find the same space Michel’s brain is occupying right now. 

The headspace where the slide of Césaire’s cock over his tongue and the tug of his fingers in Michel’s hair are the only things that matter. They’re certainly the only things Michel can really feel anymore; there’s no ache in his knees from kneeling, not even his still-hard cock is distracting him. 

“There you go, kitten, just like that. Go down for me.” 

Michel looks up, meeting Césaire’s dark, lust-filled eyes, and whimpers. Césaire’s biting down on his lower lip, but he looks...looks  _ proud _ of Michel, and that’s enough for Michel to let his eyes close and take it. 

He’s been reduced to a vessel for Césaire’s pleasure, and he couldn’t be happier. Euphoria fills him, from the tips of his toes to his hair follicles, it tingles through him. 

Things go very, very blurry after that. He remembers Césaire spilling in his mouth, Césaire telling him to swallow and massaging his throat as Michel obeys. Beyond that, he’s not sure what happens until he blinks his eyes open some time later. He has no idea how much time has passed, but he’s still in his babydoll nightie, though his mask, plug and panties are gone and he feels slightly wet like he’s recently been cleaned. 

_ “Bonsoir, mon chaton, _ welcome back.” 

Michel comes to realize slowly that Césaire is curled up around him, spooning him like he’s...precious. “He-euagh-” Michel attempts, then coughs, gladly accepting the water bottle Césaire holds to his lips. 

“I have tea, too. Here.” Césaire readjusts them, sitting against the headboard, Michel cupped between his legs, still feeling cherished, but this way he can actually take small sips of the hot tea without spilling on the bed.

“Mmmm.” Letting his throat settle, Michel tips his head back to lean against Césaire’s chest, wanting to purr when Césaire’s fingers comb through his hair gently. 

“Would you like an orange slice,  _ mon chéri?” _

Césaire holds one to his lips, and Michel accepts it, savors the tangy sweetness. “Thank you,” he manages without having it catch in his throat. 

“You’re so very welcome.” Césaire presses a kiss to his hair. “Thank you for sharing that side of yourself with me. You’re beautiful.” 

Michel flushes, despite the experience they’d just shared together. “You liked it?” 

“I liked it very much,  _ mon chaton. _ Can I get you anything?” 

“Just keep doing that with my hair, please,” Michel murmurs, settling better into Césaire’s body, taking orange slices as Césaire feeds them to him and more sips of his tea. 


	9. Phone connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel and Cesaire continue to have a lot of fun.
> 
> Tag add: Phone sex, 'Heat' kink - as in being 'in heat' not like, hotness, Breeding kink

"Well if it isn't our own _La Voix."_

Césaire turns away from inspecting the weekly offerings at the farmer's market fruit stand - the peaches look lovely today - to smile up at a familiar voice. "Tristan, how are you?"

The bartender pulls him into a half-hug because he's still holding hands with his companion. "Césaire, I don't think you've met my boyfriend, Bastien?"

"Hello, it's so wonderful to meet you." Bastien offers his hand, and Césaire takes it.

"You've been a stranger," Tristan says with a laugh, and for a panicked moment Césaire thinks he's referencing the sex club here in public, but then Tristan winks and nods over at the community center.

It's one Césaire had had a hand in helping create, back as a teen, actually. One of his first pieces of activism, getting the community center for queer youth, the first of its kind in Livinia, up on its feet. He's still on the board, though he can't be there often, obviously, and Tristan's one of the small group leaders.

"I'm going to be visiting more often, actually, once this university education work goes through. I promise I'm not forgetting my roots."

"There's a cocktail get-together Friday at Sabrina's. I've heard a rumor there will be a couple of cute guys to meet..." Tristan wiggles his brows, even as he bumps shoulders with Bastien, who winks.

"Oh I'm not av- I'm not looking, right now." Césaire wonders if his blush is obvious. "Too busy. But cocktails sound fun." _And I should probably do something that doesn't involve the prince._ He'd only just gotten home from their first scene together, and he's still feeling a little buzzy from it.

"We'll see you then!" Tristan gives him one last side-hug before he and Bastien continue down the farmer's market row.

A few hours later, when Césaire next sees Michel, he’s fully back to being The Prince, not that Césaire expected anything different. But he feels pride, knowing that Michel is able to handle himself so well in part because Césaire helped him escape for just a little bit. Sure, ninety-percent of that is Michel himself, strong as steel, but Césaire likes to think he helped a little. 

That, he supposes, is that, for now anyway. Perhaps Michel just needs a firm hand every once and awhile to function at his best. He certainly seems back to normal the next few days, and Césaire couldn’t be happier about it. They work together as if they hadn’t played together that night, and Michel doesn’t approach him for any more scenes. 

What he’s not expecting, then, is the Friday night phone call. 

He’s at home, sifting through paperwork, reading town hall transcripts and proposals from the people that he’s supposed to funnel to the royalty, idly wondering if he should get dressed to go to Sabrina's, when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He’s surprised to see the prince’s private number pop up when he fishes it out. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Césaire, um. Hi, I know this is strange, I don’t normally call you, but…” 

Césaire sets the papers away, rearranging himself in a more comfortable position in bed to talk to Michel. “Is everything okay?” The prince doesn’t sound especially upset, more nervous. 

“Yeah, I just…” Michel falls silent again, and Césaire waits him out. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m needy or clingy or anything.” 

Césaire frowns, rubbing his hand over his thigh absently. He’s wearing a pair of soft lounge pants and nothing else, and hearing Michel’s tired voice almost makes him self-conscious, in his own apartment, of all things. “I am sure I won’t think you’re clingy, Michel. Does this have to do with... _Le Chaton?”_

“Mmm.” Michel’s assent sounds small and hesitant.

“Michel, if I came to you and said, ‘I want to have sex,’ and you said, ‘No, I’m tired, not this time, thank you,’ do you...I mean, I hope you don’t think I’d force you anyway, right?” 

“Of course not, Césaire. I- You’re safe. I can’t imagine...that.” 

Césaire suddenly wishes he had the prince here in front of him so they could really see each other. “So if you come to me and asked for sex, I assume you’d grant me the same. That we can trust each other to give consent, take it back, give it again, whatever is needed. Does that seem reasonable to you?” 

“Yes,” Michel whispers, and Césaire can just picture his red cheeks. 

Then he realizes he doesn’t have to picture it. _“Mon chaton,_ would you video chat with me? I’d like to be able to see you when we talk about this sort of thing.” 

“Yes, I- one moment.” 

He takes the pause as an opportunity to send a text off to Tristan.

 **Césaire:** Won't be able to make it to Sabrina's. Work got away from me!

He closes the app before he can see Tristan's answer and opens Michel's face-to-face call.

“Hello, Césaire.” 

Césaire was right, he is flushed, and it looks like he’s in bed, too. And, when Michel’s eyes drift downward, Césaire remembers he’s not wearing a shirt. So maybe he sits a little straighter, his chest puffing up to give the best impression. 

“Michel, mon chéri, if you want to ask me for sex, you just have to ask. I’ll either say yes or no, but I’m not going to think you’re being clingy.” 

Michel captures his bottom lip with his teeth, a pretty enough picture that Césaire wishes he could lean through the screen and kiss him. Take that bottom lip all for himself as his kitten squirms against him.

When it seems like Michel’s still hesitating, Césaire finds himself doing what comes naturally, and takes control. “I was thinking that maybe you didn’t want to play again so soon, kitten.” 

Michel, if anything blushes harder. “I- No, I just didn’t want to bother you, I’ve-” He bites down on his lip again. 

“You can tell me, _mon chaton.”_

“I-did-what-you-suggested-and-looked-up-porn-the-last-four-nights-but-it-doesn’t-feel-right-to-come-without-my-daddy’s-permission,” Michel lets out suddenly in one breath, but he angles the phone down to where his cock is tenting out his pajama pants, leaking, as if offering Césaire proof. 

“Ohhh, kitten. I’m so proud of you. You’ve been a really good boy, hmm? Maybe Daddy needs to get you a chastity device, though, just to make sure. Put your pretty little cock in a cage so you can’t get in trouble without me.” 

“Yes, Daddy, that’s what I need,” Michel whimpers, his eyes practically black with desire in the small screen of Césaire’s phone. 

“Do you need Daddy to help you out tonight, right now? Do you want my permission to come?” 

“Yessss, yes please.” 

Césaire hums, pushing his own pants down over his hips and stroking his cock to the sight of his little kitten all hot and bothered. “I need you to do some work for me first, kitten, okay?” 

Michel lets out a needy little sound, but nods. 

“I want you to go get a glass of water and a piece of fruit for me for aftercare, kitten. Banana, orange, anything like that. Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

Césaire watches, power humming in his blood as his kitten walks to the kitchen in his suite at the palace, gets the water, finds a couple of mandarin oranges. All the while Césaire keeps up a steady stream of praise, and the flush on Michel’s cheeks never fades. 

“Such a good boy, good kitten for me. Set it up on your nightstand and then get comfy again, okay? And get naked for me, you look over-warm, and I really want you to be comfortable.” 

The phone gets dropped on the bed as Michel complies, and the screen jostles around, but then Michel’s there again, looking at him expectantly with those big doe eyes - kitten eyes - his chest flushed. 

“Need you to do one more thing for me, kitten.” He waits for Michel’s eager nod. “I want you to tell me what you saw in the porn that you really liked. Tell me what made you want to come so badly you almost disappointed Daddy by touching yourself without permission.” 

Michel gives a little moan, looking away from the phone and blushing even more. It’s a wonder there’s any blood left to run his brain between his cock and his flush. “There was this one kitten, she had a collar on, and I liked-” his breath hitches, his eyes unfathomably dark, “and I liked that.” 

“You want my collar, kitten? We can do that. You’d look so pretty, all marked up as Daddy’s little kitten.” Césaire gets a pump of lube from the bottle on his bedside table and slicks up his cock. “What else?” 

“Can I- Can I touch myself Daddy?” 

“Go ahead, kitten, you’ve been waiting so long. But you have to tell me what else you saw that made you so hot.” 

Michel strokes himself twice, probably just to alleviate some of the pressure. “There was one, Daddy, where the kitten, he was…” Michel bites down on his lip, hard, and circles his cock with his fingers so he doesn’t come, and it’s all Césaire can do to hold himself back. 

“What was he doing, _mon chaton?_ Tell Daddy.” 

“He was _in heat,_ and his owner, he kept saying how he was so horny he’d let anyone fuck him. Let anyone get in his hole to breed him up-” Michel whines and looks at Césaire, pleading with his eyes. The words, the look on Michel’s face, Césaire can’t take it. 

“Fuck-” He comes all over his fist with a groan, then pants, “Come for me, come for me, kitten.” 

Michel pumps his cock and then stiffens, calling out ‘Daddy’ as he comes.

Though he’s oversensitive, he can’t quite get over Michel’s words. He never in a million years thought they’d be a trigger for him, but fuck- “You want me to breed you, kitten? Scratch that itch that only getting fucked hard can scratch, spill inside you, knock you up?” 

“Daddyyyyy-” Michel moans, his cock twitching out some more cum as he pants. 

“Fuck,” Césaire says again, with wonder this time. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” 

The small smile that graces Michel’s lips warms Césaire to his core. He talks through their comedown with more praise for Michel, and then guides the prince through cleaning himself up, getting dressed in his pajamas again, and eating his aftercare snack. When Michel is settled against his pillows, blanket wrapped around him, eyes drooping, Césaire calls it a night. 

“And remember, _mon prince,_ don’t ever, ever feel like you can’t ask. I might say no, just like you might, but I’ll never, ever judge you for asking. Do you understand, Michel?” 

Eyes clear now, Michel nods. “Yes, Césaire.” 

_“Au revoir, mon prince.”_

_“Au revoir, mon chéri.”_

When Césaire finally hangs up, he lets his eyes close, the image of Michel all satisfied in aftercare carrying him to sleep, plans with his friends completely forgotten.


	10. Press Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Michel and Cesaire continue their affair, the new La Voix gets introduced formally to the people.

“M. Demaret seems to be getting along quite well as The Voice,” Mme. LeBlanc whispers to Michel at an afternoon tea one day. 

Michel looks over at Césaire, smiling a little when he sees the man engaged in a passionate discussion with a council member and Nadia’s father. “He is completely in his element, yes.”

“I’ll be announcing my retirement today, formally, with your father. I’m thinking we can have a ceremony for M. Demaret on Friday?” 

Michel meets Flore’s eyes. “Your country thanks you for your service, Madame. And I know personally, I will miss you.” 

Flore waves this away with a smile. “I won’t be a stranger, you just won’t have to listen to me anymore.” 

“Well, I’ll still miss your sage advice, Mme. LeBlanc.” 

“Here’s a last piece, then,” she says after taking a sip of tea and sliding her eyes across the room to where Nadia is being as delightfully entertaining as Nadia can be. “Snatch her up quick before someone else does. I’m not sure I’ve met a better fit for a modern queen, you know. But we all know that betrothal from when you were both babies won’t stand up in court should someone else sweep her off her feet.” 

Pain lances Michel’s heart, as he looks beyond Nadia to where Césaire is still in a deep discussion. “We’re making our plans, Mme. LeBlanc, don’t you worry. We want to wait until the new _La Voix_ transitions before making another splash, you know how the conservatives are.” 

“Of course, of course, _mon prince._ You are, as ever, not really in need of my advice, but you’ll forgive an old woman for offering it anyway, I hope?” 

Michel leans in to press a kiss to Flore’s cheek when she cheats it out for him. “Always, madame.” 

She pats his knee, setting her tea aside. “I should find your father, then. You may want to prepare M. Demaret to meet the press after my chat with the king. His first formal introduction to them.” 

Michel stands too, wiping sweaty hands on his suit. “I’ll do just that, thank you.” 

“He’s doing well,” Nadia murmurs in his ear, an eerie reflection of Flore’s earlier words. 

They’re standing behind the king, Flore, and Césaire as they face a sea of microphones and reporters. 

“He’s very good,” Michel replies before turning his attention back to Césaire. 

“M. Demaret, a question from the Livinia Evening Post, how does it feel to be our country’s first LGBTQ+ Voice?” 

Césaire smiles, giving the man a small nod. “I’m very honored, though I think it would be more proper to say that I’m the country’s first _openly_ LGBTQ+ Voice. It seems easy for our history books to forget that gay people existed hundreds of years ago, too, and we can’t - and shouldn’t - make any determinations about their sexualities. Thank you.” 

There’s a scramble after that, the floodgates open, but Césaire answers everything with the same calm, instructive voice. 

“How do you feel about being asked to be the Grand Marshal at Livinia’s 5th annual Pride parade next month?” 

Michel blinks in surprise - he hadn’t heard of this development. Something warm blossoms inside him as he watches Césaire, amazingly, blush.

“I am very, very honored. I will do everything in my power to make sure that our community is not forgotten. I don’t have the information right now, but please look forward to regular town halls with _La Voix_ in the LGBTQ+ community. I’d like to meet with the community at least once a month, and bring my findings to the king.” 

The questions deflect over to Michel’s father, who appears gracious, but Michel knows he’s gritting his teeth through his vows to be open to new ideas from Césaire’s community. His father has always been one of the strongest conservative voices on the council. He’d never hear of, for instance, striking out the requirement of rule that the crowned leader of Livinia not only must be a man, but must bring a queen in as well. The rule that binds him to Nadia and keeps him from Césaire.

After considering Césaire’s earlier point about history for a moment, Michel wonders if that rule was put in place specifically to thwart someone like him in the past. Some previous king who’d shown the ‘wrong’ tendencies. But oh, the conservatives would argue now that only cishet marriages can lead to heirs, as if blood is everything. Fucking ridiculous. 

“M. Demaret, what’s your response to critics who say that your appointment goes against the family values of Livinians?” 

Michel barely keeps himself from snorting in derision, so he doesn’t know how Césaire manages to appear unflapped. “I would answer that forcing people to hide, forcing people to be who they aren’t, that should always be against your family values. I was very fortunate that my parents felt the same way. We didn’t have access to a lot of resources growing up, but my parents loved me no matter what. Now, I am out, and proud, and someday I hope to marry a man who’s out, and proud, and if we have children, I’ll always encourage my family to be whoever they are, in whatever form that takes. A family that doesn’t allow that for their children doesn’t seem to have very many values at all, it seems to me.” 

Michel finally identifies that warm feeling in his chest as _pride._

Still, he doesn’t miss Nadia’s worried frown at him at Césaire’s casual mention of a future that in no way, shape, or form could include Michel. Michel shakes his head at her. There’s no time to think about that now, not when he needs to join several members of the press and Mme. LeBlanc applauding loudly after Césaire’s remarks. 

**Césaire:** I’ll see you at Nadia’s tonight?

 **Michel:** Yes

 **Michel:** Do you have any orders for me? 

**Césaire:** Put on whatever makes you feel the sexiest, kitten. And don’t forget how a pretty kitty waits for his Daddy.

When he texts Michel to let him know he’s on his way up, he doesn’t get a response beyond the words getting flagged “read.” Anticipation settles in his gut as he rides up the elevator with the ever stoic M. Rossi.

He makes sure there’s no one in the hallway, though, before he opens the door. The sight of Michel, _Le Chaton,_ is for his eyes only. 

And oh, what a sight. 

Le Chaton is waiting for him, yes, in the entrance hall. In true kitten fashion, he’s waiting for his Daddy to come back but still shying toward the wall, rubbing his cheek against as he makes eyes at Césaire. He’s on his knees, letting them spread so his hands can come down between, making his back arch and showing off his tail. It’s the first time Césaire has seen him in white, a lace teddy that frames his masculine body beautifully. Perched in his blonde locks are a pair of white ears, no mask, because he doesn’t have to hide himself with Césaire, he supposes. Césaire lets his eyes travel down the lace cupping his pecs, and to the straps holding up his white stockings. The fluffy white tail pokes up and out of the lace panties that are clinging to his ass cheeks, and to the bulge where his cock is straining. 

At Césaire’s prolonged perusal, Michel rubs his cheek against the wall again, arching his back and flicking his tail. 

Césaire is suddenly achingly hard in his suit pants. “Fuck.” 

He walks up to Michel, running his hand through Michel’s hair as the kitten pushes against his fingers. “Wish I could take a picture of you, just like this, _mon chaton._ I’d never need porn again.” 

Michel’s pleased smile is brilliant, and Césaire shrugs out of his suit coat and hangs it on the rack by the door. He drinks the admiration in Michel’s eyes as he unbuttons his white dress shirt, pulling it from his pants and leaving it hanging. He pops the button on his pants, and Michel leans forward in anticipation, but Césaire captures his head by pulling at his hair. 

“No, kitten. Daddy has some presents for you, but we need to go over our signals first, okay Michel?” 

At the use of his name, Michel’s eyes clear a little, and he nods. Césaire leads him to the sofa area, Michel still on his hands and knees. As they run through the safewords, the hand signals that Césaire can tell are going to be more useful tonight considering Michel is basically already non-verbal, Césaire continues petting through Michel’s hair. 

“Does _mon chaton_ want to see what I brought him?” 

Michel nods eagerly against his fingers. 

With his free hand, Césaire opens his messenger bag and pulls out the collar. It’s black leather, wide, with a small silver tag that reads _‘mon chaton.’_ Michel practically melts when Césaire shows it to him. 

“I got black to go with your other outfit, mon chaton, but this is still going to look so pretty around your throat.” 

Practically vibrating, Michel rubs his face against Césaire’s knee. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, please, please.” 

“You want Daddy to make you his?” Heart thumping, Césaire circles the collar around Michel’s neck and finds the right hole so that it’s the right size to feel tight but not cut off circulation or oxygen flow. The silver tag rests against Michel’s Adam’s apple, bobbing when he swallows. “Perfect. You’re perfect.” 

Michel lets out a moan, obviously already so far gone, so deep in his headspace. Césaire hooks two fingers under the collar and leads Michel up gently until his body is straining, and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s dirty and quick, and Césaire can’t help but take another and another, keeping Michel in the precarious position. He lets go of Michel but keeps kissing him, still making him work for it, and pulls his dress shirt the rest of the way off. 

Whimpering against his lips, Michel’s fingers run up Césaire’s torso, scratching here and there like a good kitten does. The little pinpricks of pain make Césaire groan. “Fuck, kitten, just like that. Scratch me all up.” 

He maneuvers them around until Michel’s on the couch, legs spread wide to accommodate Césaire between them, his chest heaving and throat pulsing against the collar. Césaire makes short work of his dress pants and boxer briefs, grabbing lube from his messenger bag and standing over Michel splayed out on the couch as he slicks his cock up. Michel just keeps looking up at him with begging eyes, his nipples peaked with pleasure and thrusting against the lace cups of the teddy. 

Without further delay, Césaire takes the flimsy material of Michel’s lace panties in his hands and rips it apart to reveal his hole, held open by the tail plug. He growls - someday, he thinks, someday maybe he’ll have some semblance of self-control around Michel, but today is not that day. He pulls the plug out, rocking the widest part against Michel’s rim just to make him whimper, then thrusts two fingers inside to check how well Michel prepared for him. It takes a little bit of stretching, but then Michel’s ready.

Leaning over, biting at Michel’s neck right above the collar, and then at Michel’s earlobe, he whispers, “I’m going to fuck you so hard, kitten. I’m going to make you scream. And you’re going to dig your claws into my back and make me feel how well I’m fucking you. Show me how much you love my cock in you.” 

He punctuates his speech by thrusting into Michel’s tight heat, making them both cry out. Michel feels amazing around him, hot and clenching, but Césaire doesn’t move until he feels Michel’s arms wrap around him, clocks the sting of Michel’s nails digging into his skin as he holds on for dear life. 

Césaire takes Michel’s lips again as he starts his rhythm, gripping the back of the couch for leverage. He wants Michel to feel him for days. Wants him to sit at his desk tomorrow, all prim and proper as the prince, and wince a little because he’s sore in the best way possible. Césaire’s heart gallops in his chest, and he’s unable to tear away from Michel’s kiss. He knows he’s drowning all sorts of pretty little kitten noises, but the way Michel is scratching down his back makes up for it. 

He’s not sure his dick has ever felt so fucking good, thrusting into his kitten. Michel’s hips rise to meet his as they try to reach that end, find absolution together. It’s Michel that breaks the kiss now, tearing his mouth away to throw his head back and let a litany of curse words fall from his lips. “Fuck, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuuuuuck me, please, come in me, please, please, please, _Daddy-”_

Growling, Césaire grips Michel’s hips and fucks him with everything he has. Deprived of Michel’s mouth, he latches onto Michel’s neck instead, sucking and biting at his skin to keep himself from yelling. 

He can’t help himself, though, shouting when his orgasm socks him right in the stomach, clenching in his gut and blasting pleasure down his limbs. He thrusts as hard as he can in Michel and spills his cum in three long, hot spurts so deep in Michel it shocks Michel into his own orgasm. He does scream, now, clenching around Césaire’s sensitive dick and pulling some aftershocks out of him. 

With a final push of strength, Césaire reverses their positions, letting the prince lay on top of him as they both come down from the high, sticky, sweaty, perfect. 

Eventually, when Césaire pulls out to start the cleanup process, Michel whines, thrusting his hips back, trying to chase Césaire’s dick, then the fingers Césaire offers as substitute. Grunting, Césaire finds the tail plug and pushes it inside Michel’s slippery, gaping hole, stopping up the cum that had been trying to slide out of him. 

“Fuck, kitten.” 

Michel whines again, tucking his head under Césaire’s chin, and Césaire becomes thoughtful. He lets Michel float in his kittenspace for a little while longer, but when cleanup really does become a pressing need, he works the clasp of the collar and pulls it off Michel’s throat. 

“Nooo,” Michel complains, surprising Césaire with a sniffle. 

“It’s okay, _mon chéri,_ it’s okay.” 

“Wanna be yours.” 

“You are, Michel, you are.” He kisses Michel to quiet him, satisfied when Michel relaxes under the kiss. “Now, come be mine in the shower, so I can clean you off, _mon chaton.”_

Michel sighs, letting Césaire maneuver him into a sitting position, then relying heavily on Césaire’s help to get to the bathroom. By the time Césaire has him naked, Michel’s shaking, and Césaire sits him on the lip of the tub and cleans him up thoroughly. All the while, he can’t help but murmur praise. “You are my perfect kitten, Michel. You’re mine now.” 

_But for how long?_ is a thought he refuses to acknowledge.


	11. A sibling conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel has an enlightening conversation with his brother.
> 
> Tags added: 69

Michel stops shaking from the mind-blowing scene and earth-shattering orgasm somewhere around when he’s still sitting on the edge of the tub and Césaire is washing his hair. The scratch of his nails against Michel’s scalp feels  _ amazing, _ and he sighs, resting his head against Césaire’s stomach. His heart feels full to bursting, and he wants to let words out, dangerous words. To distract himself, he lets his hand grip Césaire’s powerful thigh, and works kisses down to the thick patch of hair surrounding Césaire’s spent cock. 

“Mmm, kitten.” Césaire’s voice is echoey in the shower, but he doesn’t move to stop Michel when he takes Césaire’s head in his mouth. 

He’s not quite sure why he initiated the blowjob, is the thing. He’d say it’s because he wants to stay in his kittenspace, but here, with just the two of them, naked, without the trappings of his costume, he feels different. _This_ feels different. More than just their arrangement. Dangerous, dangerous territory.  


He closes his eyes against the shower water and loses himself in the blowjob, loses himself in the sweet praise dropping from Césaire’s lips. He loves feeling Césaire plump up again in his mouth, loves knowing that he can make Césaire this way when the Dom had fucked him within an inch of his life not an hour ago. 

Césaire’s fingers are that sweet mix of gentle and insistent when he tugs Michel off his cock and shuts the water off. “Let’s finish this somewhere more comfortable, kitten.” 

All Michel can do is nod, complacent. 

Césaire is gentle -  _ loving, _ Michel’s mind supplies, the traitor - when he dries Michel off and pulls him to the bed. He presses Michel down into the sheets with a kiss, then keeps moving down, kissing at Michel’s throat and licking at some stubborn water droplets that are clinging there, not yet dried in the air. He takes Michel’s nipple between his teeth even as he pinches at the other with his fingers, working them erect and sensitive. When he pulls away, he blows on the wet place he’d left, making Michel moan at the little bolts of pleasure centering around his nipple. 

Down, down further, over the flat planes of Michel’s stomach, to tickle his nose in the blonde, barely visible curls of Michel’s happy trail. By the time he reaches Michel’s cock, Michel is fully hard again, ready, willing. 

Césaire pulls back, though, making a thoughtful enough sound that Michel doesn’t immediately protest the loss of his lips. “You comfortable like this?” he asks, and Michel nods. “How about this?” 

And then Michel’s body is covered with Césaire’s, his thighs straddling Michel’s head, his cock bobbing by Michel’s cheek. “This is fine,” Michel answers in a strangled voice, imagining the meme with the dog in the room on fire. He gasps when Césaire takes him fully in his mouth, down to the root in one go. “Totally fine!” he squeaks. 

Césaire chuckles, and Michel can feel it around his cock. He bucks his hips at the sensation, then moans with frustration when Césaire takes one of his arms and uses it to hold Michel completely in place. Césaire’s message is clear:  _ Let me do my thing. _

And, well, two can play at that game in this position, can’t they? Moaning again as Césaire bobs on his dick, Michel finds Césaire’s cock with his mouth once more, the feeling of Césaire on his tongue already becoming familiar. Homey, almost. He wraps his hands around Césaire’s thighs and starts working Césaire’s cock just like he had been in the shower. He loves Césaire’s taste like this, all clean musky  _ man. _ He reaches over to fondle at Césaire’s balls as he slides his tongue around Césaire’s slit, sighing around his cock in happiness. 

From this angle, though, he can see Césaire’s tight hole, surrounded by a whorl of dark curls, and he wonders. ‘Anal play - receiving’ had been on Césaire’s ‘yes’ list, but they haven’t actually done it yet, and he’s not sure if Césaire would want him to take initiative, even if they’re not really scening right now, not really playing in their power dynamic. 

Still, the thought of pushing something on Césaire that he doesn’t want makes Michel pull off, using one of his nonverbal signals for ‘stop’ on Césaire’s thigh. Césaire does, immediately, a fact which Michel marvels over. He definitely had been playing with amateurs before this. 

Césaire rolls to the side and sits up so they can make eye contact, looking concerned. He also looks high as fuck, his lips swollen and red from the blow job. It’s an extremely good look for him, Michel decides. “What do you need,  _ mon prince?” _

Michel shivers at the way Césaire says it, like an endearment and not just what Michel is. “I was just- just wondering if you’d mind if I-” He can’t believe he’s stumbling over his words like this, but everything about Césaire makes Michel feel like a bumbling virgin. “Could I please rim you? Finger you?” 

The smile that dawns on Césaire’s face is addictive, and Michel finds himself smiling right back. “Yes, yes, please, Michel.” He leans over, contorting a little so he can kiss Michel senseless, before resuming his position again. “Color?” he asks, and Michel can feel the breath of Césaire’s mouth on his cock. 

“Green, green, Césaire.” 

Césaire resumes his blowjob with an amount of enthusiasm that makes Michel moan, temporarily distracted from his own exploration. But soon, that little pucker beckons him, and he runs his tongue down Césaire’s cock, over his balls and perineum, and licks tentatively there. Césaire tastes clean here, too, and though he’s certainly tighter than Michel’s own well-fucked hole, he doesn’t put up resistance as Michel’s tongue starts to work his rim. 

Somehow, that makes it all the hotter for Michel, and he goes to work with enthusiasm. He can feel Césaire’s precum dripping on his chest, telling him he’s doing a good job since Césaire’s mouth is otherwise occupied. He stops for a moment to get his finger wet, then starts stretching Césaire’s hole with his tongue and the finger, letting him get inside properly. 

Césaire pops off his cock down below, and then he can hear Césaire’s rough voice: “Little to the left, my left, deeper-  _ fuck.”  _ Césaire’s thighs clench around his head as he finds Césaire’s prostate for the first time. Césaire drops his head, mouthing over Michel’s balls as he moans over Michel’s repeated abuse of his prostate. 

Michel is determined to get Césaire off before he loses his brain to his own orgasm, so he brings his other hand up to start jacking Césaire’s cock, still slick from his saliva. It’s complicated, fucking Césaire with his finger and tongue and stroking him in any kind of rhythm, but Michel has always been a competent multi-tasker. 

“Fuck, kitten-” Césaire growls, his hole clenching around Michel’s tongue as he spills all over Michel’s chest. Michel loves the sensation of being marked like this, and when he drops his head back to the bed to focus on what Césaire’s mouth is doing to him, he scoops some of Césaire’s cum up from his chest and licks it off his fingers. Césaire deep-throats him again, swallowing around his cock, and Michel rubs his daddy’s cum into his chest, swirling it around his nipples, pinching them. 

It’s when Césaire thrusts two wet fingers into his hole while he’s deep in Césaire’s throat that Michel finally comes, twitching in Césaire’s mouth and around his fingers. He turns his head, drowning his sounds of pleasure by biting Césaire’s inner thigh. 

Later, when they’re both in their pajamas and wrapped up in each other, Césaire’s fingers sliding through his hair, Michel finally gets up the courage to say, “I loved what you said to the reporters today, Césaire. Every day you reaffirm my choice. You’re going to be an amazing Voice.” 

Césaire’s pleased little smile is everything to Michel. “Thank you,  _ mon prince. _ I- I hope to never let you, or the people, down.” 

Michel reaches up, brushing hair from Césaire’s forehead, his heart breaking as he says what he knows he has to say: “And someday, you are going to find someone who can take you out in public, and love you properly.” 

“Mich-” 

“Shh.” It’s cheating, maybe, but Michel quiets Césaire with a kiss. He pulls back to see Césaire’s eyes have gone stormy and concerned. “I’ll give you what I can, and you’ll give me what you can, and we’ll do our best, until we can’t anymore, yes,  _ mon chéri?” _

Césaire frowns, but nods, his fingers trailing over Michel’s hip. “We’ll talk more about this later.” 

“Sure.”

But Michel deliberately closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He knows it’s going to be up to him to do what’s best for them both. Césaire is far too kind. 

Still, nothing makes him happier than watching Flore hand her power over formally to Césaire at the banquet on Friday night. He watches Césaire’s speech, his father’s more formal one. No matter, it will be he who works with Césaire, not his father, whose retirement is fast approaching. 

He’s surprised out of thoughts of the future - both immediate, as in, when Césaire bends him over and fucks him later tonight at the apartment, and farther away, to the good they’re going to do for Livinia together - when insistent fingers wrap around his arm. 

“What-” Michel whips his arm out of their grip, turning to see his offender to find his brother, Réne. 

Réne flashes his cigarette case. “Join me in the garden?” 

There’s no easy way to say no, not with a hundred people in the ballroom all able to see if he puts up a fuss. The last thing this family needs is more tabloid fodder. “Of course.” 

Réne’s silent as they walk out. He surprises Michel by leading them to a small forgotten corner of the garden, one well away from anyone who could intrude. As kids, they’d called it their ‘secret garden,’ this little alcove. His brother finally pops open the cigarette case, pulls one out and lights it, offers it to Michel. 

“No thanks.” 

“‘Course,” Réne says with a roll of his eyes. He sits down on a stone bench and takes a drag. “Look. Still here.” 

Michel joins him on the bench to run his fingers over the letters carved there. He and the twins had made the markings as kids; it had seemed the height of naughtiness to be able to deface something when they lived in a place where every interior change had to be run through the historical preservation society. 

Michel sighs, trying to steel himself against the nostalgia of their childhood. “Did you need something?” 

“I just figured I’d rescue you for a bit.” 

It takes everything for Michel not to roll his eyes. “I don’t need rescuing, Réne, I’m used to this kind of event.”

Réne snorts. “Oh, I know. How you can deal with all of that,” he waves his cigarette vaguely toward the palace, “is beyond me. Not what I meant, though. I  _ meant, _ rescue you from continuing to be so  _ painfully _ obvious about your little crush on  _ La Voix. _ ” 

Michel shoots up, panic making his stomach hurt. “What? Why would you say such a thing?” 

“Please. I’ve seen Emilienne fall ‘in love’ enough times to recognize the Marchand puppy eyes.” Réne blows smoke from his nose. “Don’t worry, this just made you one-thousand percent more interesting.” 

Michel sputters, crossing his arms over his chest in a bid to protect himself from being  _ seen. _ “I- Réne, you know you can’t-”

“Is it new?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You know, liking guys. Is it new? Is M. Demaret just  _ that _ good that he converted you? He is very attractive, although not really my cup of tea.” 

There’s nothing on Réne’s face that looks predatory, and he’s still running his fingers over those marks they’d made in the marble. After a minute's hesitation, weighing all of his options, Michel decides to make a leap of faith. “No. No, it’s not new.” 

There’s a look of appreciation in Réne’s eyes, or maybe he’s impressed. “Honestly, then, I don’t know how you haven’t broken down and said ‘fuck it all.’”

“What? I can’t just-” Michel folds his arms tighter and looks away. “What, do  _ you _ want to be king, then, Réne?” 

“Fuck no.” A small, amused smile lifts Réne’s lips. “Do you?” 

Deflated, Michel drops down by his brother. “I have no choice.” 

Réne snorts again. “I guess we weren’t wrong, then, Maman and Emilienne and I.” 

“About what?” 

“You really are a conservative old fogey like our dearest papa.”

Michel blinks, unexpectedly hurt at being lumped in with his father. “Just because I’m doing this for the good of Livinia doesn’t mean-” 

“Look around, Michel. It’s the 21st century. Why does Livinia need us at all? Tradition?” Réne raises his eyebrow. “Like the tradition that means you’ll never be able to be with someone like M. Demaret? Believe me, Michel, it’s much more fun here on the dark side.” 

“I don’t understand,” Michel mumbles, clinging to the edge of the marble bench as if it’s the only thing that is keeping him grounded. 

Réne grins. “I mean, yes, galavanting around Europe, seeing how much of the family fortune I can waste, it’s been fun, but rebelling against the stuffiest old man in the world? Priceless. The people of Livinia will never see Emilienne or I as royal material.” 

Michel’s fingers try to bite into the marble. “You...did all that...on purpose? Do you know what he did to  _ me _ because of  _ your _ indiscretions?” 

At this, Réne looks mildly contrite. “We thought you were a chip off the old block, Michel. Trying to keep this family together out of some misguided sense of tradition and propriety.” 

Michel tries to feel anything, but he can't. He's just numb.  


“Listen, Michel, I-” Réne reaches out, fingers brushing over Michel’s taut arm. “I’m sorry. I guess maybe we should have, hmm, consulted you. But you always took Father’s side, so…” 

_ Because I was trying to shield you. _ Michel shakes his head against the thought. “I am...very good at hiding,” he murmurs instead. 

“Apparently so.” Réne gives him a pitying look now, which Michel can’t stand. 

He shakes his head again. “I- I appreciate your concern. I’m fine, and when I’m king, I can make things better for my children.” 

“You could make things better for  _ you _ now.”

Anger rises in Michel. “What good does that do to anyone but me? I’m not selfish.”  _ Like you, _ he doesn’t add.

“Maybe you should try it sometime.” 

“Enough! I’m done with this conversation, Réne. I’d- I’d appreciate it if you didn’t force me to have to clean up after you anytime soon. You and Emilienne and Maman can consider it a way of asking for my forgiveness.” 

He turns on his heel, leaving his brother and the secret garden behind. 


	12. The Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the next couple of chapters are going to be a little dark and angsty, because, you know how it goes. Never fear, these boys will figure it out!
> 
> Tags added: Happily Ever After (just to reassure you, heh), and then the more angsty ones: Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Use of F Slur, Blackmail, Threat of Forced Outing.

“David, please put a call to Mme. Lambert on my schedule for sometime this afternoon, I want to make one final appeal before the vote. I haven’t yet leaned on the ‘you have a grade-school aged grandson, what about his education?’ argument.” Michel finishes adjusting his suit coat after his morning run and shower. 

David gives him a grin, one Michel recognizes as his ‘we’re going to win this’ grin, and Michel finds himself matching it. He feels  _ amazing. _

Perhaps that’s what fantastic sex, burying the hurt feelings your brother brought up deep within you, and a great morning run with a handsome man does for someone, he muses. 

“I’ll add it right away, Monseigneur. You have, ehm, an appointment with M. Talmeaux right now, in your office.” 

Michel wrinkles his nose at the thought of having to deal with the conservative councilman so early in the morning, but with the vote on his and Césaire’s university-for-all package tomorrow, he’ll use every opportunity he can to change minds. Even if the mind belonging to M. Talmeaux is stuck stubbornly in the ‘50s. Michel snorts to himself. More like the 1850s, actually. 

“Wait near my office, please, David. I’m going to need you right away after I finish talking with Talmeaux. We have a lot to accomplish today.” 

“Of course,  _ mon prince.”  _

He finds M. Talmeaux waiting outside his office, looking out one of the windows to the gardens, but is surprised by M. Borque and M. Genet, the other strong conservatives on the council.  _ “Monsieurs, bonjour. _ Shall we take this inside?” He pushes past the surprise and opens his office door for them. 

“How can I be helpful today?” Michel asks as he moves around to sit behind his desk and takes in the men before him. All three, his father’s best friends.  _ Birds of a feather, _ he thinks bitterly. 

As if Michel summoned him, the king glides into the room, and everyone stands again. Without a second thought, Michel moves away from his chair to allow his father the position of power. M. Talmeaux doesn’t sit, just closes the office door with a click of finality. “It’s looking very good for the proposal your little  _ La Voix _ has put together, Monseigneur.” 

Michel forces a smile on his lips, brushing past the childish dig at Césaire and meeting Talmeaux’s eyes. “We have hope, M. Talmeaux. Nothing is assured, of course, until the vote is over, but I am cautiously optimistic about the outcome, and the benefit for all the children of Livinia.” 

“Of course, of course. And do you plan on having one soon?” The smile M. Talmeaux flashes at him doesn’t reach his eyes, which stay predatory. “A child of Livinia, I mean.” 

Michel glances at his father, but his expression is stony and unreadable; he wants his lap dog to take the lead, apparently. “Of course. We are waiting, as you know, for Nadia to complete her doctorate before she’s asked to take on the duties of the queen.”  _ Including getting pregnant like some broodmare, _ Michel wants to snarl. 

“Hmm, yes. She is an accomplished young woman, isn’t she.” 

With this, at least, it’s easy to respond. “She is. I am very proud of her, and she’s going to bring so much to the table for Livinia.” 

“Yes, yes, of course. We quite look forward to your nuptials.” The other two councilmen nod and his father remains silent, apparently happy to let M. Talmeaux continue leading the discussion. “And of course, marrying the largest banking family into the royal line is an excellent asset for both sides.” 

Michel wants to wrinkle his nose, already tired of whatever the fuck Talmeaux is trying to imply. He straightens away from where he'd been leaning by the window, preparing a dismissal. “Nadia would be fit to be my queen even if she were not a Dutoit.  _ Monsieurs, _ it has been a pleasure-”

“It’s really too bad she doesn’t have a cock, isn’t it, Michel?” This time, Talmeaux’s smile matches his savage eyes as Michel feels all the blood drain from his face, and he glances at his father. Nothing there, still. 

“I don’t know what you’re-”

Again, Michel is cut off, this time by the king reaching into his coat and tossing a file folder on his desk. It spills open, and the contents make him nauseated. 

Photos. Of him, of course, the top one taken on the balcony of Nadia’s guest apartment three mornings ago. He’s wearing a white silk robe and drinking a cup of coffee. All innocence, of course, except Michel knows what he’ll see if he moves it aside, because he remembers this morning, obviously. The morning after he’d crossed the line, initiated that blowjob in the shower with Césaire outside of a scene. Things had changed for them, that fundamental difference between having sex and making love, or at least Michel’s battered heart had thought so. 

He almost resists looking through the photos, doesn’t want to see the emotionally intimate moment they’ve captured, but his fingers reach out involuntarily to spread the photos wide. The first shot of him by himself, then in the next, Césaire joins him, wearing nothing but his lounge pants, looking absurdly handsome with his bare chest and feet. Next shot, Césaire’s arms wrap around Michel’s waist as they continue looking out on the capital city slowly waking up. Next shot, Césaire’s lips press on his neck, over a love bite Michel has had to mask with makeup and closed collars for the last few days. Next shot, Césaire’s hand sliding between the folds of Michel’s robe and-

Thank god, at least, the next shot is Césaire pulling him back inside, no matter how much Michel had wanted to indulge in a little innocent exhibitionism. Because Césaire, as his Dom, will always protect him, even from his own bad ideas. 

Still, the series of photos is incriminating enough. He and Césaire appear clearly, so it’s not like Michel can try to brush this away by claiming it’s not them. And it doesn't really matter that the photos only mean he could be bi - they mean he has a preference for men at the very least, and that's not acceptable, not for the King of Livinia.  


When he meets the eyes of the three councilmen again, he wants to throw up at their predatory looks, but it’s his father that makes his blood run cold. He recognizes, finally, why the king has been silent: he’s  _ seething, _ a simmering pot of unspent rage just waiting to boil over on Michel. “What do you want from me?” he manages against the bile rising in his throat.

“Just to protect your reputation,  _ mon prince, _ and the reputation of this family. You must know how disappointed your father is.” Talmeaux raises an eyebrow, and the king clenches his fist, then releases it. 

Michel’s heart burns in shame. He shouldn’t- he shouldn’t care that his father can’t accept him for who he is, but- 

But he’d basically been suckled at the breast of his father’s approval, hadn’t he? And time after time, he’d cleaned up after his mother and siblings’ little rebellions, only so he could hold himself above them in his father’s eyes, chase some sort of validation that has never, ever come.

“And, of course, if it were to come out that a member of the royal family was having an affair with  _ La Voix, _ think of how that would ruin the Voice’s credibility. A conflict of interest, surely. I’d imagine M. Demaret would have to leave the palace, leave his job as a lawyer, maybe even leave the country in disgrace. I can’t imagine the people would be happy with him.” 

“You’ve made your point, but you haven’t yet said what you want,” Michel says through gritted teeth. 

Talmeaux spreads his hands, a conciliatory gesture that means nothing. “It’s simple, really, Michel. Consider your win tomorrow as your first and last. After that, you’ll back us, and back your father, and fight for the conservatives in future debates. You’ll announce your wedding date - and it will be as soon as you think it can be managed, but no more than three months away, I should think. That assistant of yours, David, can surely throw something together by then.” 

The king stands; he has a full inch on Michel and he uses it now. “I don’t think I have to tell you what happens if you let  _ anyone _ find out about you fagging around, Michel. I have tolerated your mother’s affairs. I have tolerated your siblings’ idiotic trips. I have tolerated  _ you _ dragging your feet to marriage. I  _ will not _ tolerate a faggot of a son. You will break off this affair, and you will never pursue this again. If you can’t get it up for Nadia, maybe René can get it done, at least that’ll keep the bloodline.” 

Bile rises again in Michel’s throat, and clinically he wonders if it’s from the slur, the thought of using Nadia in such a way, or the absolute hatred in his father’s voice.  _ At least, _ he thinks faintly,  _ they don’t know that I like to get on my knees and let Césaire master me. _

“I hope you understand I’ll disown you if you decide not to take this deal,” his father mutters, twisting the knife all the more. 

“It would be such a blow to the people of Livinia to have such upheaval in their royal family.” Talmeaux sounds like he’s trying to be reasonable.

Michel clenches his fist until his nails bite into his palm. “I understand.” He knows it’s useless, knows they surely have backups somewhere else, of course, but he gathers the photos and scoops them to his chest. If he has to give Césaire up, at least he can have proof of this moment. “I’ll see to the arrangements right away.” 

He manages to make it out of the office without letting any tears fall, and then he sees David in the hallway and straightens his spine. He doesn’t have time to break right now. He doesn’t have time to think about his decision. 

He knows that the minute he sits down to do so, he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s not actually doing this for his people, or to protect Césaire, but because he’s too much of a coward to be who he truly is. 


	13. The Best Actor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesaire is confused and upset over why Michel is freezing him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more "it gets worse before it gets better" chapter, lovelies. <3

The  _ ping _ of a news notification comes from Césaire’s phone, and a dozen surrounding him in the palace room, just as he’s about to toast the passage of the higher education package. They’d found out the news minutes ago as he’d prepared to either celebrate or commiserate with some of the strongest backers of the package. 

“To the children of Livinia,” he calls, raising a glass of champagne. 

“To  _ La Voix!” _ one of the professors he’d worked with shouts. 

“And to the prince, for his support, of course,” Césaire adds, looking around the room, surprised to see Michel is absent. 

“To the prince indeed,” someone says with a laugh. “He’s getting married!” 

Frowning, Césaire pulls out his phone, reads the headline that had pinged his phone earlier.  _ PRINCE MICHEL ANNOUNCES WEDDING DATE.  _ And then much, much farther down, past a dozen articles that have somehow already popped up speculating everything from venue to the bride’s gown choice,  _ Education Package Passed By Council.  _

Not that he needs some grand recognition for the work he’s been chosen to do; it’s enough, of course, that it got done. But it seems rude - and out of character - for the prince to step on his moment, what should be  _ their _ moment, their victory lap, with this. 

He downs the champagne he has left and sets the glass on a table as he moves to a more private corner of the room, flicking his fingers over his phone to type out a text. 

**Césaire:** Where are you?

Michel, frustratingly, leaves him on ‘read’ for several long minutes before finally answering.

**Michel:** My suite. I’ll tell Stefano that you’re allowed. 

Césaire frowns. Sure, he’s never actually visited Michel’s private suite in the palace, but he also had kind of assumed he’d be allowed without needing to be told. 

It rankles him, gets under his skin as he ascends the stairs for the east wing and Michel’s quarters. This is why he shouldn't have gotten involved with someone in the closet. There's no chance to be clear about one's expectations. 

Stefano lets him pass at the entrance to the hallway without a word or clue, but when he knocks softly on the sole door, Michel opens it hastily, like he’d been waiting. 

“Congratulations on the higher education package, Césaire.” Michel welcomes him in with a cold and distant kiss on the cheek, the kind one might give an acquaintance. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

It’s as if the last months haven’t happened, as if Michel’s stepped back in time to the day they first met, Michel an icicle in an otherwise welcoming palace. 

“No, thank you.” Césaire feels stiff, wonders if it’s a side-effect of how stiff Michel is right now. “I hear that congratulations are in order for you, too.” He holds up his phone, but Michel barely glances at the headline. He knows, then. Of course he knows, and even has the grace to look a little ashamed.

He watches the prince turn away from him and walk to the window, as if he doesn’t even care to face him. “Nadia and I felt it was time to, hmm, get the show on the road, as it were.” 

“It’ll be quite a  _ show,  _ yeah. Good thing you’re Livinia’s greatest actor.” He sees the moment the insult stings Michel, sees the hurt it inflicts on his prince, but his own hurt feelings are overriding his better judgement.  _ Good, good that you should hurt, too. _ “I- I can’t believe you overshadowed the vote with this nonsense.” 

Michel’s brows draw together. “I did?” He pulls out his own phone, scrolls, and looks devastated. “I’m sorry, Césaire, I never meant- but at least it passed, yes?” 

“I suppose.” Unable to stand Michel’s coolness, he crosses over to the prince, resting his hand on Michel’s waist. A move he’s used to command Michel’s body before, and Michel looks tempted to give in. “You hurt me, Michel.” 

“I’m sorry,” he offers again, but he won’t meet Césaire’s eyes. 

“You could have at least warned me.” 

“You’re just my fuck buddy, Césaire. It’s not like you’re family. You knew this was temporary.” Michel looks over at him now. "This doesn't have to stop, you know. Nadia won't care, as long as we're discreet. Of course that means we'll have to stop being so friendly in public."   


Stunned, Césaire takes a step back. Everything the prince says is true, yes, but- “You know we’re not just fuck buddies, Michel, and we haven’t been for some time. I- I lo-” But he can’t bring himself to say it, not to this cold creature that stands uncaring before him, proposing what, a _lifetime_ of hiding in the closet? And Césaire may love the prince, but he has a little self-respect left, he likes to think. “I thought you were someone else. Clearly, I was wrong.” 

“You had fun, Césaire, and so did I. Don’t make this more dramatic than it needs to be.” 

Césaire feels rage burn in him, rising to meet the prince's iciness, but all he does is move away from Michel “Fuck you, too,  _ mon prince. _ Have a nice life playing pretend.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the prince behind for good. 

Of course, it's not like Césaire can just cut the prince out of his life. He sees him, works with him everyday. But there's an exceptional chill between them that only gets worse when every single little detail of his upcoming wedding is being blasted from everywhere - from every news channel, paper, magazine cover, and headline on social media. It taunts Césaire, reminds him how stupid he was to ever get involved with the prince in the first place.  


And then, then the prince makes it worse at the next council breakfast. Twists the fucking knife. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Césaire blinks, and looks over at Michel, who’s interrupted his debate with M. Talmeaux about if Amsterdam’s legalized sex worker regulations could work in Livinia. It’s the first time the prince has ever disagreed with him publicly. Césaire had thought Michel had always agreed because Michel believes in the same ideals as him. That doesn't mean Michel always has to agree with him, but the timing is suspicious. Perhaps now that  _ La Voix _ has a win under his belt, Michel is feels like he can finally voice his actual opinion.  


He can’t -  _ can’t -  _ think that it’s somehow revenge for the way they ended things. Michel’s not that petty. He’s just a fucking ice prince. 

Talmeaux doesn’t look surprised, which makes Césaire think that the prince actually aligns much more with the conservatives, or at least is willing to do so now to cement his fakeness. “Just so, Monseigneur, just so.” 

Césaire thinks he might throw up in his mouth. On a whim, he decides to test his Michel, poke at him, just to see a response. “We can leave that for another time. Monseigneur Marchand, I was wondering about something. The royal family has never once acknowledged the Pride celebration. Next weekend marks the fifth annual celebration, which was, as you know, a long time coming in Livinia. My community is proud of our people, and wonders why the crown hasn’t progressed on this facet of human rights. How would the crown like me to respond? What message would you like me to tell our people?” He tries not to emphasize ‘our’ overly, but the double meaning still hits Michel, he can see it. 

Michel freezes, turning pale. For a second, Césaire thinks he might have caught him, might have convinced the prince that he should stop lying to everyone, but M. Talmeaux jumps in before Michel can respond. “The crown has never formally acknowledged the celebration because it’s not our place to do so. We encourage our people to make  _ healthy _ choices, not destructive ones. Surely you’ve seen the parade? I wouldn’t want my grandchildren to see what goes on there.” 

“Please excuse me.” Michel stands abruptly, walking swiftly out of the room without even giving anyone the chance to rise properly to bid him farewell. 

_ Coward, _ Césaire thinks unkindly. 

He ignores when his brain repeats the insult back to him as he walks out of the palace directly after the meeting.

“I haven’t seen you for awhile,  _ La Voix.” _ Tristan sets a glass of water in front of him when he slides into one of the bar stools at Écarlate. 

“Can you make it a whiskey, actually?” Césaire studiously ignores the eyebrow Tristan raises at him. 

“Of course.” Tristan’s silent as he grabs a clean glass, pours out the shot. But as he slides it across to Césaire, he doesn’t let him take it yet. “You know, the whole ‘bartenders are good listeners’ thing is a stereotype for a reason.” 

Césaire takes the glass when Tristan releases it, but he only takes a sip. Somehow, getting plastered doesn’t appeal. 

He snorts derisively at himself.  _ Nothing _ appeals, now that he’s known how the prince feels beneath him. “Was looking for a play partner earlier, but no one hit my buttons, you know?” 

“I don’t know, there’s some cuties out on the floor tonight. Even a few tall, lanky boys like your last partner, if that’s your preference.” 

Césaire scowls at the thought of his last partner. 

“Aha.”

“Shut up. You’re not that good.” 

“It’s not hard, Césaire. You and the cat both don’t come around for awhile, now you come around sans Catboy acting like someone kicked your dog? What happened?” 

Césaire takes another drink, decides against his earlier sobriety, and slams the whole thing back. Nods his ascent for another. “He can’t be out. His family…his job...” Césaire blows out a breath. “It’s a fucking mess.” 

“Mmph.” Tristan wipes down the counter between them. “Never fall in love with a boy in the closet. It only ends in heartbreak.” 

“I’m not in lov-” Césaire cuts himself off, because he doesn't want to lie right now. “He doesn’t love me enough to fight for me.” 

“Oh, hun.” Tristan whistles, and one of the other workers comes by. “I need to take care of my friend here, Gabi. Can you take the bar for me for the rest of the night? I’ll cover that shift on Saturday you couldn’t find anyone for.” 

The enterprising Gabi knows a good deal when she hears one, apparently, and quickly gets behind the counter as Tristan comes around and loops his arm through Césaire’s. “C’mon,  _ La Voix _ , finish your drink. We’re going to take your mind off whichever bastard did this to you, and celebrate the fuck out of Pride in the process. Let’s go somewhere where no one is ashamed to be who they are.” 

With a nod, Césaire takes the shot, throws down a twenty, and lets Tristan lead him out of the sex club. 


	14. The Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadia talks some sense into Michel, who does something rash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late post! I know it's at least Wednesday for most of the people reading this, but I totally forgot today was Tuesday! Sorry to leave you hanging!

Michel’s in a bleary state of non-sleep when he hears the knocking on the door, insistent. Annoying. Groaning, he rolls over in bed, intent on ignoring it. 

Then he hears the electronic beeps of his code being punched in, and Nadia’s voice. “Michel, I’m coming in. You better be dressed. Hello? Michel?” 

He considers sitting up when Nadia’s voice gets nearer, but it’s not worth it. 

“Wow. Okay. When Stefano and David said they were worried about you, I thought they were being overprotective.” 

Michel throws a glance over his shoulder. His fiance looks amazing, as she always does. Very out of place in the throne Michel has made for his depression. A throne built on half-eaten sleeves of crackers and empty bowls of soup and a wastebasket he’s keeping by the bed in case he throws up. Again. 

“Have you had the royal physician come look at you?” Nadia sits gingerly beside him, combing his sweaty bangs away from his face. 

“I’m not sick.” Michel gives a derisive little laugh. “Well, not sick with some kind of bug, anyway.” 

Nadia clicks her tongue. “Okay, well, then have you talked to the royal therapist?” 

“I’m not talking to anyone who also talks to my father.” 

“Fair.” Kicking off her Louboutins, she lays down behind him, and though she’s smaller than he is, it feels good to be spooned. “Can you talk to me, then? Michel, I hate to see you so miserable. Almost makes a girl feel unwanted, if I didn’t know better.” 

“It’s not you, but you know that,” Michel sniffs. “It’s not  _ him, _ it’s not my father, it’s not Talmeaux, it’s-” He wants to choke on the words. “I hate myself.” 

He feels Nadia’s forehead press against his back as she starts rubbing soothing patterns on his hip. “Why,  _ mon prince?”  _

He lets out a soft sob - she says it tenderly, the same way Césaire used to. “Because I can’t- I can’t be good enough for him. I can’t be good enough for him, and that breaks me. I want to be. You don’t- you can’t know how much I want to be.” 

Nadia sighs, hugging him from behind. “Do you remember the time we tried to have sex, back in college?” 

“Do I ever.” Michel laughs just a little, more genuinely this time. “I threw up then, too. I’m surprised you didn’t call off the betrothal then and there, God.” 

Nadia giggles, and it’s a lovely sound. “Not a chance, not that I knew why then.” 

“How could you be so sure of me?” 

“Sure of  _ you? _ Oh, Michel, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I love you, I love every single fiber, every cell, every inch of you. But I’m not the type of person who falls  _ in _ love. I didn’t have a name for it back then, but now I know I’m aromantic. So if I can marry a king, and my best friend to boot, I just figured, might as well, you know?” 

Michel’s stunned into silence. “Oh,” he finally manages.

Nadia rolls him so they can see each other, then cups his face. “Michel Marchand, you are everything I could want in a husband, except interested in fucking me, but, you know, there are plenty of people who can do that. But you, you owe it to yourself to rethink this marriage. Think about this,” she murmurs as she gestures around the room. “Think about how not being yourself is literally making you sick.” 

“I love him,” Michel whispers. “I love him, and I’ve lost him.” 

Nadia, amazingly, gives him a wry smile. “You work with him everyday,  _ mon prince,  _ you haven’t lost him.” 

“I can’t- I can’t ask him to be with me, and always be hiding. It’s not fair to him.” 

“So come out.” 

“It’s not that simple! I’ll be disowned.” 

Nadia rolls her eyes. “What, you can’t find a job, _mon prince?_ _La Voix_ doesn’t make enough to keep you as you’re accustomed? I know for a _fact_ that you can survive a whole year with just what you’ve got strapped on your back, or did you forget backpacking through Italy and France during our gap year?” 

“That’s not- You know I don’t care about the money. I’ll be  _ disowned. _ My father won’t- he won’t acknowledge me anymore, he won’t love me-” 

“Michel.” Nadia cups his face and meets his eyes. “Which is the more impossible dream you should chase after? That your father will actually someday show you love, however minuscule and miserly it is, and only if you jump through enough of his hoops? Or living, openly, with Césaire. Marrying him. Having children together. Buying a house, sharing a car, having great sex, and all the other shit married folks do?” 

Michel swallows, picturing it. Waking up in Césaire’s arms when they’re 60 is somehow much easier to imagine than his father actually saying ‘I love you, Michel.’ His brother had been right.

“You can see it, can’t you?” Nadia leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead, using her thumb to wipe away a tear. “I’m sorry,  _ mon coeur, _ but your father has never, ever appreciated you. You know this is true. If you’re holding on to this out of some misguided sense of loyalty to him, you need to ask yourself who deserves that loyalty more, Césaire -fuck,  _ yourself - _ or your father.” 

Michel blinks, rocked by a sudden sureness. For the first time in days, his stomach settles. “I know what I need to do.” 

“This is  _ perfect.  _ And I don’t just mean the outfit, darling.” 

Césaire grins at his reflection, the bespoke white suit with subtle rainbow pinstriping hugging his body perfectly. One of the perks of being the grand marshal of the Pride parade has been working with Livinia’s top fashion designer on his parade look, and now they’re admiring him in the mirror, squeezing at his biceps.

“Mhmm, I do so love a wonderful model.” They whisk away, clapping for assistants to come put the final touches on Césaire’s outfit. 

“Did you hear that the palace finally sent a representative to Pride? About fucking time, in my opinion,” says the woman currently fixing his hair. 

Adrenaline pangs through Césaire’s veins. “What- really? Who?” 

“Not sure. Probably not someone from the royal family, though. Security would be way tighter.”

“Are they in the parade?” Césaire rifles through the rolodex in his brain trying to figure out who the king might have deigned to send. 

“No, speaking at the park celebration at the end.”

“Huh.” Césaire’s genuinely surprised, but then the makeup artist is off talking about something else, and then he’s all ready and being shuffled off to the start of the parade, and then he’s too fucking filled with pride and love for his community to give it another thought. 

He’s riding in some flashy convertible - he’s never had a great handle on car makes and models - sitting on the top of the backseat, waving, and throwing out handfuls of candy and condoms to everyone. It feels, to Césaire, like all of Livinia has come out to celebrate their community. It’s certainly the best turn out they’ve had in five years, and he knows that’s not just because of his work as  _ La Voix. _ Livinia is changing, making progress. The generation that’s coming after him - they give him such hope. 

It’s not until they reach the People’s Park - so named because around the same time that long-ago king had wanted to avoid the Guillotine by appointing the first  _ La Voix, _ he’d also split his royal grounds in half and given the land to the people - that Césaire remembers the mystery guest speaker from the palace. 

He only remembers actually, because as he’s getting out of the convertible, throwing out the last of his candy to enterprising children, he sees Michel take the stage. 

Though they turn off the park music, the parade is still loudly continuing behind him, so he walks closer, drawn to the stage. He has to know what Michel is going to say. 

For all that he’d felt determined a day ago, Michel’s stomach is roiling now. But as he looks out at the sea of rainbows and myriads of other flags that he doesn’t actually know the meaning for, he realizes he’ll find no lack of love here. 

No one here is going to look at him with as much hate as his own father has. 

And so he steps up to the mic, wincing when it gives a little feedback, and pulls out the speech he’d written and had Nadia proofread last night.

“Welcome, Livinia, to the fifth annual Pride celebration. I’m proud to be the first member of the royal family to attend this event and acknowledge the community. I’m- I’m ashamed it’s taken this long, and I’m sorry, on behalf of the crown. I’m also sorry that that anniversary number isn’t much higher, as it should be. As it was once pointed out to me, it’s not as if the LGBTQ+ community just appeared in Livinia overnight. You have always been here, you have always been a part of Livinia, and you’ve had to live in the dark for too long.” 

He takes a breath, and there’s a smattering of applause. He gets it; it’s not like the royal family should be welcomed here with open arms. He closes his eyes, takes another breath, feels the crowd start to stir and grow restless.

_ “We’ve _ always been here,” he continues, and the chattering in the crowd stops. “Yes,  _ we. _ I don’t mean the royal we. I mean- me. I’m-” he chokes, and Nadia steps forward from where she’d been waiting in the wings and threads her fingers through his.

“You can do this,” she whispers.

Michel nods, swallowing, licking his lips. “I’m gay.” 

There’s a tangible ripple effect of shock through the crowd, but Michel presses on. 

“I’m gay. I’m absolutely, one-hundred-percent, men-are-hot gay.” That actually gets a small laugh, and some shouts of encouragement. “And I’m standing here, saying this, because there is a man I love, and I deserve to love him in the light, in the open, and he deserves to be loved in the light. I don’t know if he loves me back, but- loving him has changed me, um. Obviously. I love him. I love how smart he is, smarter than me, really. I love his smile. I love his laugh. I love the way he takes care of me. I love that he always thinks he can keep up with me when I’m running, even though it’s hopeless.” Another titter, and something inside Michel settles. 

“I’m proud to be Livinia’s first openly gay prince, and I’m proud to step into this community. You have taught me so much about being myself.” Michel wipes away a tear, crumpling his speech a little in the process. “It is because of your openness, your love, your acceptance, that I’m choosing you over my royal name. As you probably know, the rules that govern the Livinian royal family dictate that a gay prince cannot be king. So I won’t be. As of today, I’ll begin the process of dissociating myself from the royal family.” Another ripple effect, but now that he’s said it aloud, Michel’s stomach completely settles. 

“I hope- I hope that means I will have a new family here. One that will love me for all that I am, not just the pieces they like or the pieces that are useful to them. Until the crown can do that, I cannot, in good conscience, stay there. Livinia, I have loved being your prince, but I’m leaving you in the extremely capable hands of  _ La Voix du Peuple. _ And remember, too, that you have a voice, each and every one of you. Thank you for your time, and, um, happy Pride?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence from the crowd, and in that moment, Michel gets distracted by a movement to his left. He only registers that it’s Césaire when their lips crash together. And then, the moment of silence lifts, and the entire park cheers, and Césaire’s still kissing Michel, and everything is perfect. 


	15. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone reacts to Michel's news.

Césaire pulls Michel to the side of the stage, where they can have more privacy. “Michel, I can’t believe you did that.” He cups the prince’s face - or maybe he’s not the prince anymore - wanting to erase the tears he sees there. 

Michel grips at his wrists, but doesn’t pull Césaire’s hands away. More like he’s using them to steady himself.  _ “I _ can’t believe I did that.” 

Césaire’s just about to kiss Michel again when his cell phone goes off in his pocket. Frowning, he checks the message, sees that it’s from his contact here at the Pride celebration, probably wondering why he’s not at the Q&A with the Queer Youth Alliance. 

“You should go, Césaire, you have responsibilities,” Michel murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“You could come with me. You’re more than welcome to come with me. I’d- I’d love to have you by my side.” 

Michel sighs, stepping into Césaire’s embrace for just a moment. “I have to go to the palace and deal with the fallout of this. I’ll have to speak to my father.” 

“Wait, and let me come with you. I can help.” 

“I have to do this now,” Michel replies with a small shake of his head. “But after, I’m going to Nadia’s guest apartment, at least temporarily.” He cups Césaire’s face. “Meet me there tonight?” 

“Of course.” Another kiss, but before Césaire lets Michel out of his arms, he asks, “Say it again, please?” 

And from the smile Michel gives him, he knows exactly what Césaire means. “I love you, Césaire Demaret. With every fiber of my being.” 

“And I love you, Michel, _ mon chaton.” _ He presses a kiss to Michel’s forehead. “Go. Be safe. I’ll see you tonight. And remember, whatever the king says, you are loved, and you have a whole community to back you up.” 

Césaire’s in the middle of answering a question about trans youth protections in schools when one of the teens interrupts, holding out his phone for Césaire to see. “La Voix, it’s your prince, he’s-” 

Césaire pulls out his own phone to try and figure out what’s going on, and so does everyone else in the room. There’s a live video feed of Michel, standing outside the gate to the palace. Visible in the foreground are a bunch of palace guards holding back the paparazzi, but Michel stands there, alone, the gate unmoving. 

“The people say the king refused him entrance,” someone from the crowd in the room calls out. “That’s what TMZ is saying anyway.” 

Anger builds in Césaire as he looks around the room. His eyes land on the camera broadcasting his Q&A live to YouTube, then takes in the teens around him. “You guys might want to record this.” 

He stands, bringing himself to his full height, and feels like he just stepped back out into a court of law. The thought settles him. “People of Livinia, you have a chance to prove yourselves, right now. Because at this very moment, your king is rejecting his son - your prince - his  _ blood,  _ simply for loving me. But you have a chance, right now, to show the world whose side you’re on. Pride is more than a celebration. It’s all of us, declaring our right to be here. If you believe in our prince, if you believe in our love, come with me, and show your support now. Show the king the real  _ Voix de Peuple.”  _

He feels a bit like the pied piper, the whole room of rapidly-typing teens following him out the door. They spread the message faster than he ever could, and by the time they reach the end of the block, Césaire feels as if he’s once again grand-marshaling the Pride parade. 

Except, as they turn down the street that takes them to the gate of the palace, it’s not just those who were in attendance at the parade that join him. He recognizes teachers and professors from his work on the higher education package. He sees people stream out of restaurants and coffee shops and stores to join them. He sees Nadia, walking like she’s on a catwalk, leading a group of people he knows are from the banking district, including the conservative Mme. Girard. 

And so with every step, he walks with more confidence, his back straight, his shoulders set. And this is the sight that Michel is greeted with when he turns away from the palace gates to see the commotion. His eyes go as wide as dinner plates as the people mix with the paparazzi to stand against the palace guards, even wider when Césaire confronts one of the guards until the guard finally relinquishes his position and lets him through. 

Césaire rushes to Michel’s side, taking his hand. “He won’t let you in?” 

Michel’s cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. “He won’t even let me get my things. I knew he’d be vindictive, but I didn’t think he’d...I guess I should have grabbed everything last night. I’ll have to see if David can still get inside, if he hasn’t put David on some blacklist for being my assistant. I wouldn’t care but-” Michel touches his throat, then looks at Césaire imploringly. “Your present is still in my quarters.” 

It clicks for Césaire, and he pulls Michel into his arms, making sure to whisper directly into his ear so no one can read his lips or pick up the words. “I will buy you a new collar. A billion new collars.” 

Michel smiles, just a little, which lifts Césaire’s heart. He reaches for his prince’s hand. Michel’s fingers tighten in his when one of the royal cars pulls out of the garage and starts coming down the drive. 

“He has no power over you,” Césaire murmurs in Michel’s ear. “Nor, it seems, over the people of Livinia.” The crowd behind them just keeps growing. 

The gate opens to let the car out, and Césaire and Michel step aside, not surprised when it stops beside them. Césaire  _ is _ surprised, though, when René and Emilienne pop out. 

_ “Mon frere,  _ this is so  _ exciting _ ,” Emilienne calls out as she runs up to hug Michel, who looks shell shocked. 

“Very surprising,” René adds as he lights a cigarette, looking completely unsurprised.  


“I- what?” Michel manages after disentangling himself from his sister’s arms. 

Emilienne smiles brightly at the paparazzi cameras as she poses her body for the best angles. “Honestly, Michel, you should have joined us years ago. If we’d known that you weren’t just a conservative tightwad like him, this would have been so much easier.” 

Michel looks like he’s having a hard time digesting his siblings’ easy acceptance. 

“If you thought Michel was anything like the king, you don’t know him at all.” Césaire wraps an arm around Michel’s waist, pulling him into a protective embrace. 

“Clearly not.” Everyone turns at the clipped voice of the queen, who steps out of the car, too. “But now we can get to know him along with the rest of Livinia. The  _ true _ Michel Marchand.” 

“Maybe that’s something we can do more privately,” Césaire says through gritted teeth, his arm still protective around Michel. 

“But I do appreciate your support.” Michel nods at them. 

Césaire is proud of Michel when his voice doesn’t break. He squeezes Michel’s fingers, and looks back at the crowd. “Your people support you, Michel, and your family does, too. What do you want to say?” 

The people nearest them start shushing those behind them, wanting to hear what Michel is going to say in response. 

“I don’t want to be a prince,” Michel replies, his answer getting picked up by a half dozen news cameras. “I don’t want to be the type of king my father is. I think, Livinia, you’ve grown old enough to fly on your own. With my brother’s blessing, this monarchy dies with us.” 

René gives him a little smile and a nod, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. 

“But I will stand here and fight by your side until my father gives up his place. There will be a period of transition, but we can get through it. We’ve done it before.” Michel meets Césaire’s eyes and looks amused. “I did just get rid of my boyfriend’s job, but maybe you all can convince him to run for council, or whatever system we put in place.” 

“I’ll find my place,” Césaire assures him, because he’s confident he will. Even if he goes back to being a lawyer, he’ll always work for the people of Livinia. 

Michel looks at the palace, to his father’s stubborn silence, then deliberately turns his back on the building. “Don’t we have something we should be celebrating? There’s nothing for us here.” 

With that, he starts walking through the crowd, hand still in Césaire’s, and the mass of people start to walk away from the palace with them. Césaire gives the palace a last glance - if the king is smart, he’ll understand he basically just became powerless and step down.

But Michel’s right. They have more important things to celebrate right now. Grinning, he pulls Michel into his arms as people continue to stream around them. “I just want to do this again.” 

He leans in for a kiss and Michel meets him halfway, crushing their mouths together with enthusiasm. 

Michel’s breathless when they pull apart. “You can do that again every day for the rest of our lives.” 

With a grin, Césaire tucks his arm around the prince-not-prince and starts to lead him back to the People’s Park to celebrate Pride properly. 


	16. Bon Anniversaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Michel and Cesaire's happily ever after look like? Well, it includes a lot of kink, let me tell you that. 
> 
> Tags: Heat kink, breeding kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the ficlet that inspired this piece, you'll recognize the bones of this chapter.

“M. Marchand.” Stefano offers Césaire a polite nod as he clears him through to the elevator, and Césaire returns it. 

“Any activity today?” 

“All quiet.” 

This, normally, would be a good thing. What it means today, though, is that Michel’s toxic father - the now deposed king - has decided not to contact Michel on his birthday, of all days. He hadn’t made an appearance at the large gathering Michel had had last weekend, either. 

“How did our prince seem?” Césaire and Stefano are among a handful of people that Michel will still tolerate calling him ‘prince.’ And then there's Nadia, who still calls his husband 'mon mari,' because she gets a kick out of the scandalized looks sent her way when she does it in public. Not that Césaire minds; Nadia is basically family. 

Stefano raises his eyebrows and grins. “Resilient. Came home earlier than normal with an armful of grocery bags and made me promise not to spoil anything, so consider my lips sealed now.” 

“Got it.” With a little salute, Césaire steps off the elevator and makes his way to their apartment door. 

It had only made sense to buy the guest apartment from Nadia. It brings Michel joy and comfort to be so close to his best friend, and she’d cut them a good deal. Still, even with Michel being cut off from his trust fund and finding joyful, tragically underpaid employment in public education - he makes the fucking cutest kindergarten teacher ever, in Césaire’s humble opinion - they’re able to keep Stefano on as a security detail for the former prince, whom the paparazzi still like to stalk.

He loosens the tie at his neck and slips his phone - ever buzzing with notifications - firmly in his coat pocket. He has a deal with Michel, after all. They both try to avoid the outside world as much as possible when they’re here in the apartment. 

He pushes the apartment door open to the smell of smoke, and Césaire almost breaks that phone rule to call for help, but he belays his brain’s order when he sees Michel standing at the entranceway, covered in what looks like flour, a little flushed but smiling broadly. 

“There’s no need to call the fire department, I take it?” He goes to pull off his coat, surprised when Michel bats his hands away and does it himself, smoothing over Césaire’s dress shirt, rumpled from meetings all day.

“No structural damage,” Michel confirms as he uses Césaire’s tie to pull him in for a kiss. It’s sweet, and not always something Césaire gets to indulge in, because Michel often stays at school late to grade or lesson plan; he, too, tries not to bring his work home.

“What, and I ask this in the most loving way possible, did you burn, _mon mari?”_

Michel blushes sweetly, tugging on Césaire’s hands. “Remember how I said, for my birthday, I wanted a night in and no stress?” 

“Yes, I remember you asking me to cancel our dinner reservations.” 

“Well, in true Michel fashion, I decided to make it stressful anyway.” 

He leads him into the kitchen area, leaving the lights off so Césaire can see a small, lumpy, lopsided cake on the counter with one lit candle. “You baked?” 

“...I attempted baking, I think is more accurate. We probably shouldn’t eat it. I don’t think it’ll kill us, but…” 

Laughing just a little, Césaire pulls Michel into his arms and kisses him again. “You know I’m going to try it.” 

“I know, I know.” Michel sighs as he reaches for two forks and hands one off to Césaire. “Just, remember, you can’t take back your vows now.” 

“Make your wish, _mon chéri.”_ Césaire crowds up behind Michel, wrapping his arms around his husband to watch him blow out the candle. 

Michel closes his eyes, hums for a second, then purses his lips to blow the fire out. Smoke curls up, the smell of sulfur and wax hitting Césaire’s nose even as Michel breaks a piece of cake off with his fork and offers it to him. 

“Oh I see, I get to taste first, just to make sure it’s not deadly,” Césaire mock-grumbles. 

“Well it is _my_ birthday.” 

The bite is happily not fatal, but strangely dry and salty, covered over in sickly-sweet chocolate icing. “Um-” 

Michel tries it for himself, then bursts out laughing, holding his hand up to cover his mouth. “Oh no.” 

“What did you do, _mon chéri?”_ Césaire asks with a laugh, setting his fork on the counter and turning Michel in his arms. 

“There are _so many_ powders at the store. I probably should have ordered something instead.”

Césaire uses his thumb to brush away some of the flour on Michel’s face. “Which would maybe taste better, but not have nearly the love. What can I fix you for dinner?” 

Michel squirms in his arms, blushing a little. “Actually, I...did that too. Much more my wheelhouse.” 

He crosses to the fridge, and pulls out a couple of plates of various bite-sized goodies - what look like little medallions of tomato, mozzarella, and basil, some cut strawberries, some tea sandwiches that look like some sort of creamy cheese and cucumber. Perfect finger food. Michel holds them out, looking hopeful. 

“I see, I see. Kitten wants to come out and play for his birthday, hmm?” 

Michel nods, his eyes round and pleading. 

“Go get your collar for Daddy while I get this set up, _mon chaton.”_

Michel sets down the plates and goes quickly to comply, but stops at the doorway, leaning against the jam. “Daddy?” 

“Yes, kitten?” 

Michel squirms against the door, arching his back. “I think- can you come here?” 

Césaire crosses over in two steps, and Michel takes his hand, leading it around his back and pushing it below the waistband of his little shorts. Césaire almost expects to feel the hard surface of a plug, but instead his fingers sink right into Michel’s wet hole. He leans in close, ghosting a kiss over Michel’s ear as he grins to himself. He bets this is the reason why the cake got burned earlier. Michel probably got a little too carried away with preparing himself. 

“Mmm, kitten.” He presses in, wetting his fingers on the lube - _the slick,_ he corrects himself. 

“Think my heat is coming on, Daddy,” Michel whines, clutching at Césaire’s shirt as Césaire continues to fuck him with his fingers. 

“You better hurry with the collar then, _mon chaton._ I want to make sure you eat before your heat comes on, you know how desperate you get to be fucked, filled up and bred. God, you’d open your legs for anyone when you’re like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Michel whimpers, arching against his fingers desperately. Césaire takes pity on him by withdrawing his hand and giving him a quick slap on the ass. “Get going now, kitten.” 

Michel doesn’t hesitate, hurrying out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom. 

Humming to himself, Césaire slips off his shoes and socks and brings the plates to the living room to set on the coffee table. First order of business, if they’re playing in heat space, is a cockring. He can last, but not nearly long enough to fuck Michel through multiple orgasms like Michel likes when he’s ‘in heat.’ He grins savagely as he grabs the ring from the end table drawer and slips it on, wondering how many times he can make Michel come on his cock tonight. Maybe they can set a new record. He pulls out a plug and the lube, too, and throws Michel’s kneeling cushion on the floor, then smiles when he hears Michel’s soft footsteps. Tucking himself away, he looks up at Michel. 

His kitten stands at the edge of the room, his black cat ears planted in his blonde hair, his collar hanging in one hand, still wearing the little shorts and tank top he’d obviously changed into after work.

“Come here, kitten. Come kneel for Daddy.” Césaire can only smile as Michel rushes to comply, dropping onto his knees on the cushion in between Césaire’s legs. “So good for me. So perfect.” He pets Michel's hair continually as they run through safewords. When Césaire is satisfied with Michel’s answers, he takes the black leather collar - indeed, they had been able to rescue it from the palace - and wraps it around Michel’s throat. 

It’s almost like he can see Michel drop into his kittenspace. His body language changes, goes more languid, more fluid. He rubs his face against Césaire’s knee, and Césaire is certain that if he let him, Michel could just rub himself off against Césaire’s leg like this happily. 

But he hadn’t been trying to tease Michel earlier; he really does want to make sure Michel has the energy to play, _especially_ if they’re doing heat play. So, he picks up one of the cucumber sandwiches and brings it to Michel’s lips as he continues to pet Michel’s hair. 

They don’t communicate much verbally as they eat, a bite for Michel, a bite for Césaire. Michel has let his hands drop to the floor between his knees, and in between bites, he continues rubbing his face against Césaire - over his knee, his inner thigh, down to where he’s bulging in his pants. 

They’ve done that, Michel cockwarming for Césaire, down on his knees like this, but Césaire knows that if Michel tries, he’ll lose patience in his ‘heat,’ so he guides Michel away, dropping a strawberry slice between his lips. 

By the time Césaire has deemed they’ve eaten enough of the food, Michel is basically non-verbal, entirely in kittenspace, and rocking his ass against his heels as if he could relieve his heat that way. 

“You know that’s not going to work, kitten.” Césaire pulls at Michel’s hair, making him straighten up. “Maybe if you’d stuffed yourself with a dildo first, but you know your greedy little hole needs to be filled right now, and that’s going to do nothing. You know you need a good, hard fuck.” 

Michel moans, pulling away from Césaire’s knees and tugging at his clothing. “Hot,” he complains, shoving his shirt over his head, and indeed, his chest is flushed beautifully. He turns around, Césaire shoving the coffee table away to give him space, and arches his back to present his ass to Césaire. 

“Fuck, kitten, you’re so gorgeous. Daddy loves you so, so much.” Feeling hot himself, Césaire pulls his shirt off, letting it land somewhere behind the couch as he works at his pants. He doesn’t bother with much there, just releasing his cock and then falling forward behind Michel and pulling Michel’s shorts down and off. His hole looks slick and open - he really must have gotten into prep earlier today - and Césaire groans. 

“God, look at that. Look how hot you are. You’d take anyone right now, wouldn’t you?” He doesn’t bother with further stretching, just sinks right into Michel’s heat, making them both shiver. “Surprised I didn’t find you out on the sidewalk, flashing your little hole to anyone who’d fill it. Taking so many cocks you wouldn’t even know who the father was, hmm? Desperate to get fucked.” 

Michel cries out, his back arching as Césaire holds onto his hips with a bruising grip. “Yes, yes, yes, I would,” he mumbles, his voice punctuated by Césaire’s thrusts. “I’d let everyone fuck me.” 

Césaire presses Michel’s chest to the floor, using the position as leverage to snap his hips and fuck the most beautiful sounds out of Michel. When Michel’s like this, he wants to be used within an inch of his life, Césaire knows, and he’s happy to oblige. 

Michel’s first orgasm hits him suddenly when Césaire is buried deep inside, and Césaire has to grit his teeth against coming even with the cock ring. Michel’s muscles are squeezing all around him, vising down on his cock in a way that makes Césaire want to scream. 

“Just like that, hmm, yes,” Césaire murmurs, pulling Michel up into a kneeling position, gravity working him deeper inside. He wraps an arm around Michel’s stomach and bites into his shoulder. “Feel that? Feel how deep I am inside you? Gonna knock you up. You’re gonna be so fucking big, carrying my babies. You’ll waddle around, and probably still be desperate for my cock.” 

Michel whimpers, his cock trying valiantly to get hard again. Césaire holds him there, just like that, long enough for Michel to work through his oversensitivity, murmuring the dirtiest fucking words in his ear. When Michel starts grinding back down on his cock, though, Césaire knows he’s ready again. “Fuck, kitten, you feel so good on my dick. Gonna keep you here just like this. Keep you barefoot and pregnant and begging for me. Let me hear you beg.” 

“Please, please, Daddy-” The words fall unbidden from Michel’s lips as he desperately tries to get Césaire to fuck him harder, to take him out of this position to where he can fuck back, too. 

Césaire finally obliges, rearranging them so Michel’s back is on the floor, cushion shoved under his hips, and Césaire’s body like a blanket over him. He groans, wrapping his legs around Césaire’s waist, and this is where Césaire gets Michel to come again, fucking him hard enough that he’d be getting a friction burn on his knees if he wasn’t still wearing his pants. 

Michel whimpers and cries against the oversensitivity this time, but doesn’t use any of his signals. Still, Césaire gives him a little break, pulling out, using the opportunity to release his cock from the ring. He lazily jacks himself as he looks at his kitten, lying on the ground, chest heaving, hole gaping and slick, legs twitching. He looks so thoroughly fucked, Césaire has to stop touching himself for fear of coming all over himself. He takes to petting over Michel’s sensitive skin instead, stroking down his legs, ghosting over the scars on his inner thighs, rubbing in the mess of cum on his stomach, up to tweak at his nipples and squeeze his pecs. 

His blood feels like it’s boiling by the time Michel is squirming against him again, his cock half-hard. “Daddy, Daddy, need it-” Michel whines, and who is he to refuse his kitten?

Césaire hooks his arms under Michel’s legs to push them back, pretzel them up so he can truly get as deep as he can in Michel’s body. Without the cock ring holding him back, sliding into Michel makes stars explode behind his eyelids. “Fuck,” he grunts, finding leverage against the floor and fucking Michel for all he’s worth. 

Michel meets his thrusts with tired, reckless abandon for how sore he’ll probably be tomorrow. From previous experience, from previous ‘heats’, the whole point of this for Michel is how much he’ll feel after. How he’ll feel well and truly fucked for days. 

Groaning, Césaire drops his head, pistoning his hips, finally letting himself chase his crest. He finds it when Michel squeezes sweetly around him. He shouts, burying himself deep in Michel and coming in long, full pulses. Michel doesn’t quite get there, but bats Césaire’s hand away and gives a ‘yellow’ signal when he tries to jack him off. 

When he’s spent long enough in Michel to satisfy Michel’s craving to be bred, he pulls out, lubing up the plug and slipping it into Michel before finally kicking his pants off all the way. Michel looks incandescent, his hand resting on his stomach. It’s not bulging yet, but Césaire will try and add as many loads as he can tonight, for all that he’s almost 30 and not a teen anymore. Heats mean Michel will spend the rest of the night in nothing but his collar, ready to be turned around and fucked whenever Césaire’s recovered enough, or with the nearest handy dildo if needed. Unsurprisingly, Césaire’s dick twitches at the thought. God, he loves a heat night. 

For now, though, he brings Michel up into his lap, wrapping a blanket around him and feeding him the rest of the finger food in small, manageable bites. 

_“Bon anniversaire, mon chaton,”_ he murmurs in Michel’s ear when they’ve both come down a lot - though not entirely. 

Michel shivers happily against him, rubbing his cheek against Césaire’s. _“Je t’aime, Césaire, mon mari.”_

He pulls Césaire’s hand down to cover his belly, and they sit like that for a good long while, dreaming of children. They’re waiting until Michel feels a bit more settled in his teaching job before starting the paperwork for adoption. And until then, there’s always fantasy, Césaire thinks as he presses small kisses up Michel’s neck and under his ear. 

Still, it’s a future he can’t quite believe he actually gets to have with Michel. That Michel chose him, chose this life, over the palace and the kingdom. Chose to honor himself over the dishonor the crown had shown him. Sighing happily, Césaire squeezes Michel in his arms and silently renews his vow to love, cherish, and protect his prince for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Although I may come back and do some more epilogue for these guys as you know I'm always down to write more kink. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, especially on an original work. I really love hearing from new readers who are just taking a chance on an OW, but I also love hearing from past readers. Turns out, I just like hearing from people! :D There's nothing like that sweet, sweet endorphin rush of an ao3 email. 
> 
> Also, please check out [my blog ](https://mhabbott.tumblr.com/) for more info about my other original works. 
> 
> And! New! I have created an author email because my tumblr is in 'nsfw' hell. So if you have a suggestion or request for these cuties, drop me a line at authormhabbott@gmail.com!


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